


A Matter of Trust

by beltainefaerie



Series: I Want All of You [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Plug, Anal Sex, BDSM, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Canon-Typical Violence, Come play, Corsetry, Crossdressing, Established Relationship, Gags, Genderfluid OC, Hair Pulling, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Intercrural Sex, Kidnapping, Kink Negotiation, Leather, M/M, Misunderstandings, Public Sex, Rimming, Rope Bondage, Rough Oral Sex, Spanking, Subspace, Suspension, Top John Watson, brief mentions of past abuse, coming out as kinky, discussion of breath play, fire escape, hard limit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-25
Updated: 2016-03-16
Packaged: 2018-01-20 19:02:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 24,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1522076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beltainefaerie/pseuds/beltainefaerie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a case leads John and Sherlock to discover they are both kinky, they incorporate more play into their relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dominance/Submission

**Author's Note:**

> This will follow prompts from ChasingRiver’s 30 Day OTP Porn Challenge, although I have rearranged the order in order to facilitate the story I want to tell. The chapter titles will indicate the prompt theme.
> 
> This follows John and Sherlock from the morning after A Sharp Problem. It could stand on its own, but you might want to read that fic first. After this first chapter there should be some kind of porn in every chapter.
> 
> Due to my schedule and the other pieces that I am writing, I know that I will not manage to update this every day, but at least once a week (sometimes more often) until it is completed.  
> Update: It is taking much, much longer. Like, years longer. Sorry and thank you for your patience. I do promise to continue it until it is finished.
> 
> Tags will be added as I go along. There will eventually be discussions of past trauma, but I promise that everything that goes on between John and Sherlock will be consensual.
> 
> Thank you to Shellysbees for being a delightful beta!

We didn’t talk about it that night. Post case, and then post sex, we barely stayed awake on the cab ride home. I wasn’t sure what Sherlock wanted, but when he pulled me towards the bedroom, I didn’t protest. Not even a bit. Our clothes were left scattered around the floor, as we fell into bed without so much as a word. 

I slept better than I had in months. It was always better with him beside me, but he could hardly be coaxed to bed and most nights, despite our shifting relationship, were spent sleeping alone. So when I woke seven hours later to find he was still in bed, one arm curled around me, it was hard to leave. I enjoyed the warmth, the closeness, the soft trace of a smile on his slumbering features. 

Still, once my body had decided I was awake there was generally no fighting it. It took another moment to gaze at my lover. The mad genius. I hadn’t ever seen him so peaceful. I wasn’t really serious last night when when I smiled to myself about finding the off switch, but just maybe I had. It seemed that our play had stilled the restless energy he had, even better than sex alone. Sliding carefully out from under Sherlock, I got out of bed, pulling the covers tighter around him before I left, hopefully trapping a bit of leftover body heat. If he could sleep a little longer, it would be for the best. He never let himself get enough.

I scrubbed a hand over my face, thinking over last night. The case, the club, the delicious scene. I almost tripped over our clothes in my revery. I grabbed a hanger and set to work quietly hanging up the deep red velvet suit, because something so beautifully made should never have been dropped to the floor in the first place. It ought to be dry cleaned most likely after last night. I couldn’t help chuckling slightly at having played St Nick. With a quick glance at Sherlock, I assured myself that he was still asleep and snuck from the room lest I wake him.

Last night had been unexpected and beautiful. Amazing, really. But if we’re going to go on like this, then there’s so much I needed to know. 

I thought about it, trying to frame clear questions, as I made myself tea and toast. Clearly Sherlock had enjoyed the spanking, the leather seemed good. There didn’t seem to be any clear Christmas fetish, or just inherently the Santa and elf role play, but rather the entire environment, though the sensual fabric was a bonus.

It really hadn’t occurred to me that Sherlock would want this. But seeing him last night, I had to wonder why hadn’t I ever mentioned it? Why hadn’t Sherlock? Seemed a bloody foolish waste of our time. And yet, it hadn’t been. I like things slow and sensual, too. Certainly never sought out a full time D/s relationship. And Sherlock had always responded well to the sex we had. So it wasn’t essential, but now that it was a possibility, I couldn’t help but explore it.

The way Sherlock had uttered a positively sinful, ”Use me” made my cock ache just thinking of it. I needed Sherlock eager scurrying around on his knees. Sherlock begging for me to touch him. I wondered briefly if I could get Sherlock to do, even enjoy, mundane tasks like housework under orders. Perhaps with a bit of encouragement. That might be too much to hope for, but you never know. Might be worth suggesting.

I hadn’t be aware how much time had passed, but glanced at the clock when I heard movement from the other room. It was half nine. I smiled happily. Sherlock had gotten in another hour. 

His robe was tied shut, his eyes downcast as he entered the kitchen. Was he actually feeling shy this morning? _Had he honestly not mentioned this before because he was embarrassed?_

_Sherlock Holmes, embarrassed?_

_Tread lightly, Watson._ I admonished myself, schooling my expression. The last thing I needed him to think was that his embarrassment was warranted.

“Glad to see you got some rest,“ I said, handing him a glass of water.

He still wouldn’t look at me. “Hey, Sherlock,” I reached over, tilting his head up towards me. “What’s this, then?”

Sherlock, tried to duck his head.

“Sherlock” I said, my voice taking on the tighter, commanding edge it held last night. He startled, really looking at me.

“I...you weren’t there. I woke up and you weren’t there and I thought… everything was cleaned up, like it hadn’t happened and…”

Before he could finish, I wrapped my arms around him, holding him to my chest. “Sherlock, you know I don’t stay in bed when I wake up. I wanted to this morning. Or to wake you up and take you, still drowsy and deliciously sleep addled. But you needed rest. And I didn’t want to press any further until we talked a bit.”

Sherlock, whose eyes had been alight at the mention of morning sex, wrinkled his nose at the prospect of something as boring as conversation, his lip curling in distaste.

I kissed the sneer from his lips. “Sherlock, I love you. All of you. And last night was perfect. I just want to make sure of some things as we go on, alright?

He looked up, uncertainly, assessing, before letting out his breath in a long sigh. “I know.” 

Resting my hand on the back of his neck I said, “I’m sorry I wasn’t there this morning, Love.” 

He nodded slightly as he added “So, conversation, then.” He managed to say the word as though it physically hurt.

“Yes. Honesty and communication make any relationship work, especially like this. In fact, without it, there is no point to any of this. Besides, it could be fun.”

He glowered at me, clearly certain I had forgotten the definition of the word. 

I made him toast, knowing that if it sat in front of him while we talked, he would likely pick at it at the very least. When we both had steaming mugs of tea, I sat again.

“So, you seemed to enjoy yourself last night,” I said lightly, trying to decide whether I should be bothered that my cock was starting to thicken just thinking about it. Composure might be nice for this conversation, but evidence of my continued interest might be soothing for Sherlock. Not that I could help it much either way.

“I did." was all Sherlock offered in return.

“When did you discover that you...” _liked submitting? enjoyed being hurt?_

_Is it the pain? The power? He seemed to react to both. Why can’t I just ask a simple question?_

Sherlock blinked at me. He waited for a moment as though I might finish the sentence, before electing to filling it in for me, giving me part of my answer, “that I am a submissive and a masochist, with some limited ability to switch in the right circumstances? Though of course you wouldn’t have seen that aspect last night. I figured it out in uni. I was late to discover a sexual interest in anyone or anything at all. It fairly well ended my relationship at the time. Clearly, I was a freak. No one sane _liked_ to be hurt.”

His voice was calm, but his eyes were sad. It made my chest ache to think about Sherlock finally discovering himself only to be torn down. I covered his hand with mine. “Oh, Sherlock. It shouldn’t have been like that. There’s nothing wrong with what you want.”

“I know.” Sherlock spat, too quickly and too fiercely. He really had been hurt. “What about you? Your self discovery?”

“Simpler, really, I guess. Typical cops and robbers games as kids were always charged. Taking prisoners in war games, liking the way girls felt pinned up against a wall. Just stuck with me as I got older. So when one of my girlfriends wanted me to tie her up, I thought I’d found heaven. It wasn’t that way with all of them, but enough. I learned to tell fairly early on who wanted that sort of thing and who was more likely to slap me for suggesting it.”

Sherlock did laugh at that, relaxing slightly. Probably nice to know that I had been rejected sometimes, too. 

But his expression turned somber, his eyes narrowing slightly as he observed. “So you liked tying her up. It took you longer to come to terms with hitting someone, even if they were willing.”

It wasn’t a question. “Well, you know how my Da was with us and Mum, but it is entirely different when someone is begging for it. The situation makes all the difference.” I cleared my throat. 

“So, when did you find someone to experiment with, then?” I asked. He had mentioned last night that he had played, just years ago.

Sherlock toyed with his toast, taking a couple bites, more to buy time as he thought of how to frame things than anything else. “My next boyfriend was more accommodating. Willing to try almost anything, actually. He would suggest things, he would try what I wanted to. More inclined to hold me down than have a ‘scene’ as it were, but…” he hesitated before going on, “We tried all manner of toys and various games. It was always enjoyable. I just hated waking up alone afterwards. He never stayed the night. When we ended, I tried things out at clubs, various partners, seeing what I liked, what I hated. It never seemed quite enough though.”

“What do you want, Sherlock?”

“I want you, us, like we have been. But more of last night, too, if we can…”

I smiled. “That sounds perfect.” Exactly what I wanted , in fact.

With every step of the conversation, Sherlock looked more at ease, slipping back into the easy confidence I knew. While it was fun to have him off balance occasionally, terrified was never my aim. 

“So, masochist, sub, both can mean a range of things, but we should mesh well on those levels. My bent is more towards domination than sadism, but as long as you’re getting off on it or it is for good reason, I will be _very_ pleased to hurt you.” I leaned forward to tangle my fingers in the curls at the nape of his neck, relishing the way he gasped. It was more about reaction and control than the pain itself to me. The pain was merely a means to an end. But if he liked it, well, that made it a wonderful tool.

Looking at Sherlock, neck arched back, lips parting, he was absolutely perfect. “Go on,” I prompted.

“It is the power and the pain for me, together. It doesn’t do much good just to hit me if that charge isn’t there. Pain for the sake of pain or pain as injury, I don’t enjoy. Well, you’ve seen me.“ 

I remembered. All the times Sherlock practically had a temper tantrum as I tried to tend his wounds from any case that had left him rather battered. It would be interesting to see whether he would sit still better next time if he was told rather than asked.

“As for the submission, I will do most things under orders, but I may not like them. Which is fine as long as it balances. I am not a particularly service-oriented person, which shouldn’t surprise you. It is more in the realm of sex than anything else. I was never seeking anything permanent, which is to say that I have no desire to be owned or constantly available in that way. I couldn’t stay in that headspace all day. It would get in the way of the Work.”

I had never sought anything like that before, but it sounded good with Sherlock. I licked my lips as I wondered if he could compartmentalize, if it was situational? When we are home together rather than out in the world. When there wasn’t a case on. It was something that might warrant discussion, but not this early on. Hell, I didn’t even know if _I_ wanted that, but my prick seemed to think the idea was fine. Best not mention it till my brain and my body were in agreement.

I realized I had gone from tugging to absently petting his curls and my hand stilled. He looked content, if slightly amused.

“I don’t mind,” he said, pushing off the chair. My hand fell into my lap and suddenly, he was kneeling beside me, his head nudging under my hand again. It was playful, rather catlike. I laughed and resumed petting. “Have you ever done animal play?”

He looked up sharply, alarmed. I laughed. “As a pet, not with one.”

“Ah,” he considered, relaxing again. “No.”

“Nor have I, but you are reminding me of a cat right now. Not that I think felines are particularly submissive. Chances are you would either adore an opportunity to completely shut off that way or feel like a damn fool meowing and fetching balls. Not particularly important if neither of us are drawn to it. I just wondered. Any roles that are appealing?”

“Nothing comes immediately to mind.” he said, far too quickly,”Anything for you?” 

There was something. I could tell and wanted to push, but he wasn’t ready, so I merely answered his question.

“I’ve done a lot of headmaster and naughty schoolgirl, but that was more just what my partners wanted. I do love a good caning scene, so that fit right in, but I don’t need any costumes or contrived situations to get off on it.” Sherlock shuddered, eyes wide, pupils dilating. Caning was a yes, then. “Other than that, I haven’t played that sort of scene. If anything does come up for you, just let me know.” 

It would come in time. If he wanted to try it, he would have to let me know. 

“And the safeword from the club works for you? I won’t play without one. You know me and you are right that I don’t want to push too hard too quickly, but the human psyche is truly amazing. Mild to one person can be very hard for another and I don’t want to fall into anything accidentally.”

Sherlock sighed, though seemed more resigned than irritated. “Yes, John. If we must, that one is as good as any.”

“Anything you know offhand that you won’t do.”

“I am not interested in being used by anyone but you.”

My mind reeled at the thought. Heady as that power might be, I had no desire to let anyone else touch him like that. I nodded and Sherlock continued.

“Anything else I figure you either wouldn’t request or we would discover along the way.”

“Yes, well, experimenting has always been your forte,” I laughed.

When we were done I looked at Sherlock’s plate, unable to keep a small satisfied smile from curling my lips. Sleep, food, and personal conversation all in one day. 

It really was almost Christmas.


	2. Bondage

Glancing down at Sherlock, I shifted my hand from his hair to the back of his neck. 

It seemed like he was slipping back into subspace just kneeling here. I wondered…

“Clear away breakfast, Sherlock.”

He blinked up at me for a moment, but said nothing. Slowly, he shifted, rising gracefully and, without protest, cleared washed and dried the dishes, before actually putting them away in the cupboards. 

He smirked at me. I truly hadn’t been sure he’d do it, and he clearly knew it.

“Get out fresh towels and join me for a shower,” I said, appreciating how he was contentedly following simple orders.

The shower wasn’t really a good size for two, but we enjoyed it and made do. The sensuality of washing one another was pleasant. Fingers buried in soapy curls or sliding, soap slicked and wet, all over one another. When Sherlock wrapped a hand around both of our cocks, I let him, enjoying a few strokes before I grabbed his wrist, pulling him gently away. It was fun. Hard to stop, really, but I had other plans.

“Not just yet, Sherlock” I said. “There will be pleasure enough, but you have to wait for it.”

He glowered slightly, but didn’t protest.

When we were rinsed off, I handed a towel to Sherlock. “Dry off and lay down on the bed. I’ll be right back.”

I retrieved a coil of rope and emergency shears from my room. I didn’t have much left from my previous days of playing, but I had kept this. It was black and especially soft from regular use and washing. 

I had always favored the intricacies of knotwork. It had been something to practice during down time in the service. I had gotten fairly quick with my ties, but it was still a time consuming process. Perhaps something more intrinsically exciting would have been a better choice for our first scene at home, but it was a favorite. Better to see how he reacted to it now. Besides, Sherlock tied and helpless would definitely be worth it. Hopefully he would find it soothing and enjoyable, either for its own sake or anticipating what would happen when I was done. I was planning to make it well worth the wait.

When I entered the room again, Sherlock was on his back, lazily stroking himself. I hadn’t told him that he couldn’t, and it was a glorious sight. My lips quirked into a smile at the way he moaned when he saw what I was carrying.

I set the scissors down on the bedside table, and motioned for him to stand up. I kissed him as I brushed my hands over his chest. “Enjoying yourself?” I asked, though the evidence was clear.

“You can observe for yourself,” he said, guiding my hand to his hardness as we kissed. Cheeky, but I liked it. I gave him a few strokes, kissing down his neck as I did, before beginning my work.

I broke off our kiss and pulled Sherlock to standing. I found the center of the rope and looped it over his shoulders, walking around him to place a knot in back. Turning him to face me, I bent low to lick one of his sensitive nipples, grazing it with my teeth, as I slid the ropes over his skin, pulling the tails to the front once more. I revelled in his startled indrawn breath a moment before returning to my ties. Tucking the ties back through the original loop, I made a knot in the center of his breastbone. My detective, normally such a ball of frenetic energy, looked beautiful and serene, but I had to check in. He had been so silent since the rope had begun to slide over his skin.

“Fine?”

He closed his eyes and murmured assent. _Definitely a good sign._

He remained quiet and pliant as I continued to twine, loop, and tie, until the dark, silky ropes crisscrossed his entire torso. The knots formed orderly rows down his chest and back, marking out the points of diamonds formed in line pulled taut. I wished I had thought to ask about pictures, but he looked deep enough in space that negotiating now simply wouldn’t be fair. Definitely something to inquire about when heads were clearer, because Sherlock was absolutely a work of art.

He squirmed slightly as I brought his arms up to cross in back, binding each wrist to the opposite elbow. He worked a bit, almost instinctively trying to get free. I smiled. He was welcome to try.

It turned out slightly different than the last harness I had done, ropes dividing to frame his prick and finishing off looped around his inner thighs, in contrast to my usual form. With women everything ran down the center to tie in at the back, positioned with a carefully placed knot, to rub against the clit with every motion. Watching them discover that was always a pleasure. But this, with Sherlock was just differently enjoyable. I would work out ways to tease him with it in time. And with as well as things were going so far, practicing would certainly be fun. 

When the knots were finished, he couldn’t help pulling and tugging further, working to get free, but I knew my work. He wasn’t going anywhere.

I started towards the bed, but realized that I couldn’t leave him. His legs weren’t bound and he seemed steady on his feet, but if he started to lose balance, he had no way to break his fall. I guided him to sit on the edge of the bed and then set to work creating a makeshift support for his back and arms out of pillows propped against the headboard. I hoped it would be comfortable. I wanted him to enjoy this. 

I straddled his hips as I began to trace the lines of rope with my fingertips. He seemed different, blissed out in a way that I had never seen him. I leant forward and kissed him, gently, sliding my tongue along the seam of his lips until he opened for me, returning my kisses. When I pulled away, he opened his eyes, a thin rim of iris just visible. 

_Oh yes, Sherlock liked this just fine._

I continued to explore the contrast of ropes and exposed flesh, fingers skirting under the lines. I kissed and nipped lower making him gasp and moan until my face was level with his thickening cock. I let my breath ghost over his length before shifting to kiss over his left hip and down his thigh. His hips were beginning to move of their own volition, rocking upwards ever so slightly. He let out a needy groan as I ignored his cock and favored the opposite hip and thigh with kisses. 

He was keening mournfully by the time I finally took him in hand, sliding his foreskin back and rubbing my thumb over the head, spreading the glistening drops of precum over his cock. As he looked down the length of the bed, I met his eyes, bringing my thumb to my mouth and sucking hard. His answering moan was wanton, though not quite desperate. Not yet. 

“You are absolutely delicious.”

Licking my way up and down his shaft, I knew the sensation was amazing, but not quite enough. Teasing and slow, keeping him exactly where I wanted, I let the anticipation and desire build. I took him in my mouth, sucking lightly at first. When Sherlock seemed too close, I backed off for a moment. Standing and walking to the headboard, I looked Sherlock over. His hands were slightly dark, but not cool to the touch. I pressed down on one of his fingernails, just to be sure, but the color returned immediately when I let go. Having satisfied myself that his circulation was just fine, and fairly certain that I had given him enough of a break, I resumed pleasuring Sherlock. Whenever he seemed ready to come, I stopped to check the ropes, or kiss him until he was breathless, arching up against me. Again and again, getting him nearly there and stopping just short.

At last, when Sherlock was whimpering softly, his eyes red rimmed and glossy with unshed tears and “John,” was the only syllable he could manage, my name becoming a prayer, a plea, utter supplication, only then did I relent. 

“Now you are going to come for me” I whispered. I swirled his tongue around the glans before beginning to suck again, hard, reaching up to cup Sherlock’s balls, gently stroking the sensitive skin. He shuddered as they grew tight under my caresses. 

I swallowed around the head of Sherlock’s cock as he came, calling my name in a shout that echoed off the bedroom walls.

I crawled over him and kissed him fiercely. His eyes widened in surprise, but he didn’t try to pull away. My cock, trapped between us throbbed with desire as Sherlock twined his tongue with mine, tasting himself. 

As we kissed, I contemplated slotting myself between his thighs, but didn’t want to risk chaffing against the ropes. Next time I would have to bind his legs together. Slipping my hand between us, I took hold of my cock, stroking firmly. Between the flood of imagery my brain conjured, next time and beyond stretching out before me, and Sherlock, gorgeously writhing against me, it didn’t take long. 

As I shuddered through my climax, I drew back, pausing draw in a shaky breath.

Sherlock whimpered and opened his mouth, his eyes imploring. I lifted my hand to his lips and he eagerly lapped the come from my hand. My cock gave a longing throb. Perhaps given a bit of time, I could feel his mouth on me this evening, but for now, he had been trussed up long enough. It was time to come down.

He was relaxed and peaceful, even more than he usually was after orgasm. Content to let me move him, as I untied and uncoiled the ropes from his legs. He shivered delightfully as I ran my fingers over the imprints left behind. I massaged him, soothing aching muscles and especially his shoulders and arms after they had been pulled back so long and he sighed contentedly.

“That seemed to work well for you,” I said as we lay together afterwards, his head on my shoulder.

“I’ve always liked rope.” Sherlock said. “I’ve had rope scenes before. Even, tied myself up a few times, both sexually and for cases. It was never like this.” He propped himself up on one elbow, his eyes bright. ”Handcuffs didn’t do this. I can’t think of anything legal that has ever put me in quite that state.”

And while I never appreciated references to his former habits, that was quite the praise from him. I smiled, holding him close, and pulled him down for a kiss. I imagined those days of boredom, where Sherlock seemed ready to crawl out of his skin. 

Perhaps I had found just the thing.


	3. Pain/Sensation Play

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter went differently than I expected. 
> 
> Apparently, Irene Adler (The Woman) did some damage to Sherlock. Mentions of past noncon/assault/rape. Sherlock thinks he is completely over the experience, but it will be discussed briefly here. 
> 
> Mostly, this is a lovely scene between John and Sherlock.
> 
> Everything between Sherlock and John is consensual!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to skip this chapter, suffice it to say that Sherlock and John are enjoying exploring their relationship. Sherlock chooses to speak honestly, John deals well and they resolve not to use crops or handcuffs in their play. If it comes up after this, I will be sure to warn again. This fic is mostly happy, fluffy exploration.

It had been three weeks since the case at Out of Bounds. Christmas had come and gone and we had rung in the new year deliciously in bed, a little bit tipsy and very much in love. There weren’t many of the usual scene trappings lying about. We had used the rope a few more times, but mostly things between us were like they had been before. 

Sherlock and I hadn’t talk much about it, beyond that negotiation the morning after the case. Mostly, I just initiated things more often. I was more directive physically. Not always, but often enough. 

It was subtle, but thrilling.

And Sherlock had clearly been enjoying deducing from my stance, the way I carried myself, or the innumerable other details that only he noticed, whether it was a day to simply kiss me back or a day to drop to his knees. It was incredible and he had never chosen wrong.

On this particular morning, we didn’t have a case. He had been growing steadily more restless and it was clearly time to try something. I kissed him, feeling his body growing pliant beneath my touch. I backed him onto the couch, pressing against him as we deepened the kiss. All the tension, all the brooding and snappishness I had felt looming melted away. It would be easy to go for a nice long snog on the couch before thoroughly fucking him, but I had learned that wouldn’t stave off his black mood much longer than it took for us to get off. Hopefully what I had in mind would have a more lasting effect. 

I directed Sherlock to go strip off, lie down, and wait for me. His lips parted in anticipation, and he almost spoke, before thinking better of it, instead hurrying to comply. He must have recalled exactly what it had cost to dally around trying to deduce what I had planned. He hadn’t gotten to come that night and, much as he normally enjoyed spanking, apparently that didn’t extend to having trouble sitting down for the rest of the evening. 

I thought at the time that it had been worth the sore hand. I felt myself break out in a grin, as this proved me right.

I stood in the doorway a moment, admiring the view, before walking to the bed. Sherlock lay face down, arms pillowing his cheek. Most interesting of all, his discarded robe had been folded on the chair, rather than tossed on the floor.

“If I remember correctly,” I said, dragging my fingers teasing down Sherlock’s back, ”you used to have a riding crop around here somewhere. Possibly several.”

“No,” Sherlock replied adamantly, his body stiffening.

“No, you don’t have one or no, we can’t use it?” I asked steadily, watching his face. His immediate response and abrupt tone made me curious.

“I did have one. I got rid of it. We can’t use one.” Sherlock had frozen, his replies were ever more terse. Shaking himself slightly, he closed his eyes and whispered, “Red.”

“Alright, then,” I said, my hand coming to rest on the small of his back. ”But, what’s all that about? We don’t ever have to do anything you don’t want, you know. Just talk to me.” I was sure the concern showed on my face.

Sherlock shut his eyes, huffing out an exasperated breath, turning over to face me. “Yes, well, I suppose we _would_ have to do this. May as well do it now. _She_ used one. The Woman. Later. I saw her again and very little went as I planned. Now I...I can’t… please, just leave it, alright.”

I held him close. “Sherlock, you never said…”

“And I never wanted to, but this is about communication. And trust. Those parts are important to you, you said. So, I used to like them, I don’t anymore. The cane we borrowed is under the bed and I have a paddle in the bottom dresser drawer, under a coil of rope. Either would be agreeable.” He looked up imploringly, “Don’t let this spoil the moment, John.”

I didn’t _want_ to let it go. 

_What had he endured without so much as a word about it? And how does one file a police report on someone who is ostensibly dead?_

_Did Mycroft know? Did anyone?_

A million questions swirled in my head, but Sherlock drew me down into a kiss. 

“You’re still thinking about it. Don’t. Please. I need you now,” he plead.

“We will need to talk later, you know.”

Sherlock huffed again, but gave a tight nod.

I kissed him again before bending down to retrieve the cane and then the paddle, testing them lightly against my own arm.

I decide on the the paddle first, gently tapping Sherlock’s arse. More patting than actual strokes, just sensitizing the skin, before settling into a rhythm. Three quick strikes and a beat of rest before beginning again. He moaned appreciatively and I steadily increased the strength of the blows.

It was enjoyable to play, to see Sherlock’s reactions and what he could take. While he did admit to being a masochist and had certainly responded well to pain, at least so far as sex went. Liking pain doesn’t mean liking it indiscriminately. I tried to let go and just play. We needed this.

So far I had determined that he could enter a good headspace whether there was a slow build or I set right in with a fair bit of strength. I always gave some warm up, but he didn’t seem to actually need it like most people. It was clear from the first night that he loved spanking, but he also responded adorably to being flicked with a towel and my belt. It had occurred to me that morning that we hadn’t really had any play with more standard toys. 

The paddle was more unyielding than my hand, but he took it well. When his plush arse was glowing pink, I set aside the paddle and took up the cane. It was narrow and quite flexible, so should have a fair bit of sting.

It was a very different instrument and it made me somewhat nervous today. I loved giving a good caning. No mistake about that, but, crops could be wielded so similarly, striking with the handle rather than the tongue. In light of our talk, I wanted to gauge his reaction carefully. 

“Sherlock,” he looked round at me slowly, eyes wide. “I want you to stand up and lean over the edge of the bed. Can you do that for me?”

His mouth quirked as if to say that he obviously was capable of such mundane motion, but he merely nodded. Well, at least he had the sense not to get mouthy with someone about to take a cane to his arse.

“Sherlock, I want you to count these for me.” 

A stripe hit across both cheeks, and he sucked in a breath between clenched teeth before counting, “One.”

The second landed an inch lower and he was prompt with his response.

Three, four, and five were strikes with the tip on the outer curve of the left cheek, followed by a matching set on the right.

I rubbed a hand over his arse soothingly, enjoying the warmth of his skin.

“You’re doing well for me, love. Breathe.” He seemed to have forgotten that for a moment and did as I asked. I struck again on the exhale, slightly harder.

“Nine,” he called out shakily.

 _Just a few more._ He wasn’t panicking, didn’t drop out of position. He could take it. 

The tenth landed across the middle of both cheeks, a pink welt rising as he counted.

I hardly paused at all before the next landed on the undercurve, making him cry out, before he managed a breathy, “Eleven.” 

“Oh, that’s lovely,” I said, tracing the welts with my fingers.

The last strike was aimed at the sweet spot between buttocks and thighs. It was raised and darker, almost wine red where the tip had struck. He’d feel that one whenever he moved for a while. 

“T..twelve,” he managed after a moment, breathing hard as he processed the sensation.

“I could keep that up for quite a while longer, but I doubt you’d appreciate it,” I laughed. “Certainly not as you are trying to sit down tomorrow.”

He looked up at me, confusion written on his features. “Why wouldn’t you just do as you liked? Isn’t that rather the point?”

I sighed. We really did have to talk more thoroughly soon. “Sherlock, it is all fine and good to just do anything I’d like to, but a significant part of what I like is for my subs to enjoy themselves. In very specific instances I do like it when you endure things for me, punishment mostly, but that isn’t the way it works most of the time.”

Sherlock contemplated that as though it were a revelation and I wondered…

 _What had people done with him before?_

The play had been satisfying, in a different way than sex. Perhaps I’d feel differently before I went to bed, but for now sex seemed redundant to the closeness we had already shared and not really conducive to the conversation we ought to have. I lay down on the bed. 

“Come here, love.” He crawled into bed laying half on top of me in a way that should have been uncomfortable, but was somehow just pleasant.

“You took that well.” 

I felt Sherlock smile against my shoulder. 

We stay curled together until his breathing and heart rate returned to normal. His eyes still had an almost drugged quality, but that could last for some time.

My stomach rumbled and I realised it had been hours since I’d eaten. “I’m getting hungry. I think there is still some Chinese in the fridge.”

I shifted and he rolled off of me and got up as I did.

I threw on pants and a dressing gown. Sherlock didn’t bother with clothes, but padded along after me to the living room. I heated the leftovers and we curled up together on the couch. I turned on the telly and ate, occasionally feeding Sherlock bites. He had declined his own plate, but was still biddable enough to eat what was fed to him.

When I finished, Sherlock draped himself across my lap, his cheek pillowed on my thigh. We watched Dr Who, by which I really mean that I watched Dr Who and Sherlock lay in my lap. I traced lazy circles over his back and arse with the pads of my fingers, now and again dragging a nail over one of the marks, making him squirm.

The episode ended and I nudged Sherlock over. “Tea?”

He hummed a rather noncommittal response. I made the tea, figuring he’d drink it or not. 

Returning with cups in hand in a few minutes, I said, “So, conversation?” echoing his frequent choice of words when we needed to talk.

“As we must.”

‘As’, not ‘if’, so at least he was resigned to the inevitable.

“Sherlock does anyone know what happened? You haven’t really even told _me_ what happened.”

“John, basically any digging at all into my past, would have shown my proclivities for consensual sadomasochistic practices, so what on earth were new bruising patterns, clearly made with a riding crop going to demonstrate? And there really wasn’t any way to prove that sex wasn’t consensual. A sample of saliva or vaginal fluid would hardly be conclusive of anything other than that we had sexual contact. And that is if anyone could find her in a system at all. We already knew from her faked death that the records we had on her were altered.”

“But she did things you didn’t want. Physically. Sexually. That is _exactly_ assault and rape! Can't anything be done?”

Sherlock laughed. “Legally all of this is assault, even if the police aren’t generally arseholes about it. And anyway, she wouldn’t have seen it that way. Safewords weren’t exactly her strong suit. Not when she had a habit of drugging clients and bystanders alike. Not exactly a role model for the ‘safe, sane and consensual’ crowd. Still,” he was quiet a moment, “I am not certain she had ever had anyone say no to her and mean it before.” 

“Not every rapist knows they are one,” I snapped back.

“She understood, at the end. She apologised. I doubt she would go so far again without a negotiation. For goodness sake she didn’t usually work without a lengthy negotiation, contract, and heavy fee.”

I seethed, murderously trying to figure out whether it was possible to find out where she was. I had figured out ages ago that she wasn’t really dead, no matter what Mycroft led me to believe.

“John, there are much worse things it could have been. It isn’t excusable, I’m not saying it was ok, but...it was years ago. I’ve gone through it. That’s why I didn’t want to get into any of it, least of all in the midst of our play. I _am_ fine. I thought I would even be fine with crops with you or I would have set it as a limit at the onset of all of this. In the moment, when I realised I couldn’t, I mentioned it. That is how this is supposed to work, isn’t it? I told you what you needed to know.”

“Well, I am glad you thought you did at any rate. I need to know these kinds of things beforehand, Sherlock. I’m glad you told me and certainly glad you realized before it sent you into a bloody panic attack. Though I know how to deal with those as well. Just… Sherlock is there anything else I _need_ to know? I can’t keep you in a good headspace if there are minefields I don’t know to avoid. Or at least approach with caution.”

He paused, looking thoughtful for a moment before adding, “Probably avoid cuffing me to a chair for sex. For now, anyway.”

I took a deep breath and let it out, hoping it sounded less like an exasperated sigh than I feared. I really did want to strangle Irene, but Sherlock was doing the best he could.

“That can definitely be avoided. If you decide you want to explore anything, let me know and we can try. Some people want to avoid situations that are at all reminiscent of their attack and other people want to rewrite the story, creating new memories that rewrite those sensory paths.” I traced my fingers lightly up one arm.”Whatever will help. Thank you for trusting me.”

“And thank _you_ for listening. Not everyone would have continued. I hadn’t realized that a crop would be a problem until you brought it up. But I’ll tell you when I can’t deal with something, just as I did today.” He looked up at me. “ It really would have been a shame for us to miss this.”

I wanted to press. I wanted to know everything. But this was Sherlock. He would tell me in his own time. Besides, it was a relief to know that he could use his safeword when necessary. And he was right. He seemed fine. 

For this to work, we have to be able to trust each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock really is fairly fine. Everyone processes their assault differently. If you have read my works, I do often like to write characters reacting to and dealing with trauma. Even Sherlock doesn’t always react the same way in my stories. Sometimes minor things take forever to process and major things are more easily rationalised. Other times, major things affect him more severely, as one might expect. Sometimes my characters surprise me and a piece goes a different direction than I thought. In this, he is aware of his needs and limits, thankfully before they are problem in scene, (though even if they had been, John would have been able to deal. He’d good like that.) I am not making light of assault in any way, which hopefully comes through in John’s reaction.
> 
> Please don’t expect anyone to react this way. Most people need the help of a qualified therapist to work through something like this. 
> 
> Lastly, Sherlock's rationalisations are not my own. For my own opinion: I don't care whether you are vanilla or kinky, whether you are in a relationship with the person or they are a stranger on the street, please, please seek help if you are assaulted!


	4. Bodily Fluids

_My thoughts weren’t racing, though sometimes my heart was. John had listened. He hadn’t pushed, just wholly accepted…there was so much more than pain and pleasure. He didn’t stop me from laying in his lap or kneeling at his feet. He was learning to read me in ways I didn’t think he could. It was too good. It was too perfect._

_Something would go wrong._

\---  
We drifted in and out of headspace all weekend. Rather than strictly sticking to separating scenes and normal life, it all blended together. Beautifully blurring, weaving subtly in and out of the various things we were to one another. Shifts in tone and body language marked moments of D/s from our normal interactions. It was lovely. I had never done anything quite like this, but it seemed so natural. 

When I woke up on Sunday, Sherlock was already up. I wondered if he had slept at all as I slipped on my robe and used the loo. By the time I made it to the kitchen, Sherlock had already put the kettle on. It was a typical lazy morning, reading the paper, Sherlock composing (a piece he called ‘surrender’, though I wouldn’t learn that until much later). 

His tousled curls and lips still swollen and reddened from our kisses. It was a rare sunny day, even rarer in Winter. The golden light filtered in from the window behind him as he played, casting him in an angelic glow. I should have taken a picture, so he could see how gorgeous he looked. But it doesn’t matter. The image is seared in my mind. 

When he tired of composing and I was hungry, we dressed and headed out. It was a nice enough day for it and I fancied a bit of a walk, so we headed to Paddington Street Gardens, picking up a couple sarnies from Speedy’s on our way out. 

The air was brisk, but it was warm enough in the sun. We picked a bench and Sherlock deduced the passersby for practice and for my amusement while we ate. God, he was brilliant. I wondered if I would ever get used to what details he could see in a single glance. But as we finished our lunch, a wicked thought occurred to me. 

I leant forward, tilting my head up to whisper in his ear, “Can you imagine if others could deduce us the way you do? How many subtle signs have we left that I have had you all weekend? That you’ve spent so much of your time lately on your knees?

Sherlock swallowed hard. He looked me over and spared a glance at his own clothes as well. 

“John!” he said. Startled at the thought, but far from affronted. He clearly needed to go home. Now. He was practically squirming. Out here, in public, as I whispered filthy things in his ear, he flushed. 

“Do you think they can tell? Although no one needs your powers of deduction to tell that you are half hard under those perfectly tailored trousers,” I whispered low and deep, watching his pupils dilate until there was only a sliver of iris. I licked my lips.

He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, not even attempting an answer yet, as he pulled his coat tighter around himself.

In truth, I doubted the people walking by could see much. He had demonstrated time and again how little people observed. Two men chatting on a bench. They would certainly take in that we were a couple, from our posture and proximity, but little else. The would have to be much closer than the footpath to see what I could. He probably looked reasonably composed from a distance. 

“That look in your eyes tells me that if we were home, you’d be on your knees right now. It’s a wonder you are controlling yourself at all even out here where anyone could see.”

“Usually reciting basic information helps. Trying… trying to distract myself.” he looked down and away from me, muttering quietly, just loud enough so I could hear. 

I let out a bark of a laugh. Apparently even reciting the periodic table mentally to avoid dealing with a very public erection, or worse, wasn’t working half as well as usual. I was more than a bit tempted to simply head off to the gents together to take care of that for him.

When I suggested it, his eyes went wide as saucers, quite panicked. 

“Perhaps another day I should, then,” I laughed again, but I relented and led him back to the flat. I wouldn’t here anyway, no matter the temptation. Family park and all. 

When we got home, I found wasn’t in the mood for a fevered rush, despite how ready Sherlock clearly was. _Must remember the effect of a bit of teasing._

We were barely through the door and out of our coats when I sent him off for the rope. I took my time undressing him, admiring his hard cock, teasing at how uncomfortable that must have made the walk home and watching the color rise in his cheeks. When he was naked before me, I began tying a chest harness, lightly tracing my fingers over his skin until he shivered, before I moved on to creating the next knot. His face went slack and his breath shallow as I worked. 

“Gorgeous,” I breathed as I laid him back on the bed, his body warm beneath my hands.

Braced above him, my hands pinning his wrists to the bed, I rocked my hips, rubbing our pricks together, his silky skin sliding against mine. Now and again I bent down for a kiss, as he writhed beneath me. When I was getting close, I stilled my own hips with effort and pulled back, watching the desperate need on Sherlock’s face. I don’t think I will ever get over the desire to see that, his carefully constructed stoicism abandoned in raw lust. 

His hips arched up off the bed seeking more friction. I held him like that, occasionally letting him get close enough that the head of his cock brushed against me, but no more. 

He wasn’t actually bound to anything, but the ropes that twisted and knotted around his chest were lovely. I smiled, wondering about making him wear them beneath his clothes, They would surely show through his fitted button downs. 

That was a lovely thought, actually. He was eccentric enough, we might be able to explain it away as for a case. At least once or twice. 

I let go of his wrists and leaned back, taking myself in hand, stroking off over him. 

“You may.” I whispered and he reached down to stroke himself in time with my motions, clearly imagining my hands on him, too. 

His needy moans and the sight of him writhing before me spurred me on until the knots of the harness, his chest, and stomach, were all splattered with my come. It didn’t take long for him to follow, shuddering under me. My name fell from his lips in a drawn out moan.

I stared down a moment just taking in the sight, but as I reached for the flannel on the bedside, Sherlock grabbed my wrist.

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” I arched an eyebrow at him

“Don’t clean up, please... Sir.”

It was the first time he had added any sort of honorific address, quietly, almost tentative, as if he thought I might mind. He must actually want this to be shy about it. But far from minding, I could get used to that, in this space at any rate.

I was becoming more sensitive to his tone, how bold he could be about the things he didn’t care about and how if it actually mattered it was slyly slipped in. 

“You like this, then? Laid out for me. Covered in our pleasure.”

He shivered slightly, lips parted, his breathing still ragged, but he didn’t look away.

“Yes,” he said steadily, meeting my gaze. Taking in my expression, he added a breathless, “sir.” 

He reached up, rubbing a splash of it into his skin, moving his damp fingers to stroke the tight bud of one of his nipples. 

The sight of him there, debauched, laying out on the bed like some modern Dionysus, all tousled curls and swollen lips, his prick still half hard, damp and glistening as he played with our mingled come, was enough. I could feel my cock thickening again, though I could scarcely believe it. I gave myself a pull and it was undeniable. 

“Christ, Sherlock. What you do to me...” I said, overwhelmed with desire That I had taken him apart so completely. That he let me. 

So contained and polished and perfect, reserved even, but I had made a complete mess of him. A delectable mess at that, and he looked up at me with nothing short of lust-filled awe for it. _Brilliant._

I dragged my fingers through the mess on his stomach and he strained upward as though I were going to feed it to him. He did enjoy the taste of us together, but since my body seemed to be cooperating, I had other plans. 

Reaching down between his legs, I stroked his tight hole with my come-slick fingers and he let out a groan, spreading his legs wider for me. 

He trembled as I moved my finger in tight circles, gently pressing. He shifted, pushing back against my finger, letting me slip inside. I would need actual lube before this got too far, but this was too hot to be ignored. I coated another finger in our come, working until he was open and ready before slicking myself with lube. 

My hands slid over the damp rope, pressing the knots into his skin as I thrust deep, filling, claiming, marking. 

_Owning_

The thought was unbidden, but rang true if only in this moment, in this space.

It had been years since I had been ready for a second go this fast. I took my time, sliding slow and deep until he was murmuring my name. 

“Sir...John, please. Use me, fill me. Come inside me,” over and over until his words were swallowed up and all that was left was needy keening.

“You’d like that wouldn’t you? Covered with my come inside and out. Positively filthy.” 

I increased the pace, my rhythm becoming erratic and I pounded into him. “Touch yourself for me. You’re going to come again before I do. I want to feel you.” I drizzled lube over his cock and he did as he was told, his hand working furiously over his own length.

And if my growl sounded suspiciously like “Mine!” it was at least muffled against his skin as I bit down on his shoulder hard enough to bruise, if not break skin. 

Afterwards, we lay tangled together for a long time before I moved to untie the ropes. 

“Time to clean up now,” I whispered, kissing him softly as I pulled at the knots. 

He looked sulkily up at me. 

“Well, I’m going to take the ropes off now. If you don’t want to take a shower and would rather have a lie in covered in our come, you are welcome to it.” I laughed.

He wriggled deeper into the sheets.

“I am going to grab a shower. Gorgeous slut,” I murmured, patting his arse. 

Looking up at me through lowered lashes he said, “For you, John. Just for you.”  
\---

We could have stayed like that forever, it seemed, but I knew better. We couldn’t. 

Not really. 

It made Sherlock hazy, which he loved when he was bored, accepted as a natural side effect after sex, and outside of that he couldn’t abide it. Least of all when there was a case. So when Lestrade texted early Monday, that was the end of that. 

Watching him slip out of bed, fingers already flying over the keys, I called out, “Case?” as he turned on the shower.

“Obviously.”

Not so urgent that we couldn’t bathe. Only a 6 or 7, then.


	5. Breath Play

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> at some point someone changed this prompt to nipple play because of the intense dangers of breath play. For the purpose of this fic I am changing it back. 
> 
> disclaimer: John has a medical perspective. Neither he nor your author are kink shaming. Some things are a do-at-your-own risk kinda thing. Cutting off someone’s breath is dangerous. Potential damage to the throat is a concern, as is a cardiac event or actual asphyxiation. For John it is an absolutely unacceptable risk. 
> 
> If you need more information on why I think John would feel this way, feel free to comment or message me on Tumblr and I am happy to discuss it.

We were two months into our new discoveries and, with the exception of the crop incident, it had been smooth sailing. Something was bound to happen, I suppose. 

At least, it always did. Even in the best of relationships there were hiccups. 

Sherlock had left a series of images on my laptop. Which he had borrowed, again.

Without permission, of course, but it seemed breaking him of that would take more conditioning than I could be arsed to gather strength for. Besides, he had taken to leaving me notes, on the desktop, and intriguing tabs open on the browser. Sometimes sweet, always fascinating. I almost looked forward to it.

However, it was today’s little message that sparked our current shouting match.

A noose. Alright, not quite a hangman’s tie, but it circled round the model’s neck to an attachment point above.

“No, Sherlock.”

“But the actual weight of the model is well distributed and taken up by the lower ties, binding her body to the beam.” 

“No, Sherlock.”

“The danger is primarily illusory and psychological.”

“No, Sherlock. And I can clearly see the tension in her neck, the tightness where the rope digs into her skin. No. End of.”

“I knew you couldn’t handle me!” He blurted out.

“Oh, really?” I snorted as a closed the laptop with a snap, “Yes, certainly having you eating, sleeping, crawling across the floor to me, all your ideas.” My voice grew louder until I was practically shouting, and I simply didn’t care who heard “Can’t manage you at all? That’s what I’ve been seeing for months? Writhing beneath me, pliant and biddable?” I slammed my hand down on the coffee table. And he flinched.

I couldn’t manage him at all if I couldn’t manage control of myself. I took a deep breath. My voice quieted to a low growl when I resumed, “I can tell when you are shamming and that isn’t it. I most certainly _can_ handle you, Sherlock bloody Holmes. What I can’t handle is that I might _kill you_ to get you off. Now if you are quite done with your little strop, you’ll get on your knees right here, right now, and bloody well listen to me.” 

\---  
For a split second it seemed like John might strike him. Wouldn’t that be interesting... 

_Of course he wouldn’t. Too dark, too much._

_I’m always too much._

But Sherlock almost wanted to push until he did. 

Almost. 

A fist fight wasn’t ever what he actually wanted. Though it was what he had gotten occasionally. Sometimes everything just felt overwhelming and he wanted to push against something until it broke. Sherlock knew that he never liked it once it had begun. It wasn’t the same as play, even though it should fire the same neural pathways. But John, his John knew. He wouldn’t be goaded. He wouldn’t budge. John, who would cheerfully throw punches or fire off his gun, if it was warranted, always needed a good reason. ‘My supposedly submissive partner got a bit mouthy in an argument’ would never be reason enough. He knew that as surely as he knew the periodic table. So why this instinct? 

He wanted to find out just how hard he had to push to break John’s resolve. And that was it, wasn’t it? It just felt like a harder challenge. And he knew that with John’s past, pressing him that far would very likely be unforgivable.

He gave in. He could feel himself trembling with the effort, but he wouldn’t destroy everything. It was one thing to be set on self-destruct and quite another to take John with him. He used to be beyond caring. But John was different. 

Slowly, he sank to his knees.  
\---

For a mercy, Sherlock went to his knees, still glaring daggers up at me.

His hands went to my belt but I batted them away. “That’s not what you’re here for. Not right now. Possibly not today at all.”

I looked down at him, his chest rising and falling rather more rapidly than normal, as it did when he had worked himself into a huff. 

"You are gorgeous like this. I know this isn’t what you want right now, but it is what I want. And more importantly, what you need. It’s easier to listen here, isn’t it?" 

Sherlock looked at the floor. Not an answer, but not open defiance.

“Sherlock, I asked you a question.”

“Your statement is completely illogical and defies the realities of human hearing,” Sherlock bit out, adding grudgingly, almost bitterly, “But yes.”

I stayed patient and calm as I began to explain why I wouldn’t be choking Sherlock in any capacity.

“John, hundreds of people engage in erotic asphyxiation or approximations thereof. Most people hold their breath when they are getting close to orgasm and-” Sherlock interrupted, but I cut him off, holding up a hand for silence.

“Just a minute,” I said, adding, “Stay,” as I turned on my heel, and stalked off to the bedroom. 

Returning with the gag, I buckled it in place and despite his wide eyes that seemed to say I wouldn’t dare, he did not move from the floor or protest.  
.  
“Much better. Now, where was I? Oh yes, explaining why some sexual fantasies are _fantasies_. If you aren’t an idiot.” 

My tone remained conversational. “You of course know what this is,” I said, drawing two fingers down his neck and pressing at the carotid artery. “This is how blood gets into that brilliant brain of yours. And you know what happens if we cut off the blood flow to the brain? Hmm? At the very least you become like one of the rest of us idiots by killing off a few of those brain cells. And that is honestly the most pleasant of the possibilities.” 

His glare had dulled from murderous to a simple sulk, which was at least something.

I took his chin in my hands, tilting his face up to look into his eyes again. “I care about your life, whether or not you do.”

He winced slightly, but nodded.

“So no choking. No strangulation. And not that you’ve asked, but absolutely no smothering, you daft git!”

And that should be that.

I stroked my fingers through his curls and reached for the gag. “Now, I expect I’ll hear no more about this. No whinging. No cajoling. This is a hard limit and I am allowed to have those, too. If that’s agreed you can have words back.”

Slowly, he nodded.

“Good.”

“John,” he began, once freed from the restrictions of the gag, but stopped. Instead he leant forward against me, burying his face against my thigh. 

“It’s alright, love.” I stroked his hair. “Hey. Come here.” I led him to the couch where he practically melted into my lap. 

We lay there as evening fell. Apparently out of words for a time. We might have just fallen asleep that way, but just after dusk, Mrs. Hudson came by with some biscuits. 

“They were fresh this afternoon, but…”

“Sorry about that,” I said, taking one from the proffered open tin. It was her basic vanilla biscuit, but hand dipped in dark chocolate. She sometimes used them to lure Sherlock out of a dark mood. It made me smile.

“Oh, well. I’m just glad my boys are fine now,” she said, smiling with some satisfaction when Sherlock sat up and took two of the chocolate confections.

And for a wonder, we were.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I promised sex in every chapter after the first. Sorry. I will make up for it next time.


	6. Explanation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one has been so long in coming. Thanks for your patience. The end of the school year is always a bit challenging.  
> The full prompt for this chapter is: Explaining their (unconventional/kinky/incestuous) relationship to a disapproving third party (roommate, coworker, family member, spouse, pet, etc.)
> 
> As always, everything between John and Sherlock is consensual, no matter what well-meaning, interfering third parties might think.

The conference had lasted three days and with travel he had been away for four and a half. 

108 hours without John. And it wasn’t over. He _still_ wasn’t home.

6,480 minutes so far that John wasn’t nearby, wasn’t available, wasn’t _here_. And while Sherlock preferred to text he found himself irritated at it, missing John’s voice. He had called, but it wasn’t the same. Worse, possibly. _Why did John need to go at all?_

Perhaps next time he’ll accompany him, although what he would do while John was busy with the medical conference he wasn’t sure. Beside which, this time he couldn’t have left. There had been a case to attend to. A case he had solved the day after John left, leaving him maddeningly unoccupied and alone, but a case nonetheless. 

It was always annoying when John left. Sometimes he pretended he hadn’t, carrying on talking to him as though he was there. This year, he just couldn’t. It was worse now. He didn’t just miss the tea and the soft usual background noise, like the ridiculously slow sound of the keys clacking. This year he missed John’s touch, his kisses, the slow slide of their bodies together or the crack of his belt. Sherlock shivered.

But, the wait was almost over. 

John had texted as soon as his plane touched down and Sherlock knew approximately how much time he had. He bathed and worked himself open, fingering himself until he was wet and pliant before dressing meticulously in his purple button up and charcoal grey trousers, John’s favorite of his outfits. 

Sherlock thought about simply presenting himself kneeling beside John’s chair, but he did always prefer to do the unwrapping. Besides, Mrs. Hudson knew John was returning today and might show up with some of the cakes she had been baking this morning. No need for that awkward encounter.

So Sherlock stood by the window, watching the cars roll past and began to play, losing himself in the violin to pass the time until then. 

Sure enough, as he played, he heard the tread of Mrs. Hudson on the stairs and a cake was placed on the kitchen table. 

“Sounds lovely, dear. Much better than yesterday. I had to go to Mrs. Turner’s, and we could still hear you sawing away.” She seemed about to go, but turned back to add, “He’ll be back soon.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock added absently without missing a note. 

A few minutes later, he saw the cab pull up. Sherlock’s heart raced _JohnJohnJohn._ The door downstairs opened and Sherlock smiled to himself as he heard John’s familiar step up the stairs. It had been a long day of travel and he was favouring his leg again, the case thumping against the risers of the stairs rather than being lifted completely. Sherlock wanted to help, but had learned John wanted to do for himself. 

Sherlock didn’t pause in his playing, but glanced at the door as John arrived. They smiled at one another as John set his case by the door and hung up his coat and Sherlock finished the piece with a flourish.

In just a few steps, John had crossed the flat. Sherlock set his violin aside and bent down.

“That was my favorite piece.”

“I know,” Sherlock whispered against his lips before they kissed.

Warmth and heat and light and...John.

Breaking apart, John murmured, “God, I missed you.”

They were gentle at first, but they just couldn’t stop touching each other. Hands and lips exploring eagerly, rapidly moving from insistent to desperation. 

By the end, Sherlock was pressed onto his back, stripped of his shirt. His trousers had been opened and dragged down, but not even off. John had held him down, pinning him to the floor with nothing but his own force, hands digging into Sherlock’s wrists hard enough to mark. John himself was still fully dressed, only his flies undone in his rush and groaned with pure lust when he discovered that Sherlock was already prepared.

“I missed you, too,” Sherlock said, cheekily.

John’s kisses became positively bruising as he lined himself up with Sherlock’s slick hole and slid in. 

“Yes, John, please,” Sherlock moaned arching up against him, moving his hips as much as their position would allow.

It was fast and hard and perfect, as John snapped his hips forward, driving deep, the pace almost punishing if he hadn’t been so desperate for it. Sherlock hissed slightly as the teeth from the zip dug into his skin, but he was beyond caring, bucking up against John with abandon. 

When he was clearly getting close, John shifted to a single-handed hold on Sherlock’s wrists, reaching between them to stroke his cock.

“Come for me. I want to feel you.” John managed, nearly breathless with desire. Sherlock contracted around John’s girth, crying out, lost to the intensity. Too many days. John must have felt similarly, as he followed in a few swift thrusts, his breath stuttering. 

He released Sherlock’s wrists and leant back. Running his thumb over the flushed, sensitive flesh where they were still joined. “You’re so bloody gorgeous.”

Sherlock whimpered beneath him, at the sensation and the praise. 

As they lay together afterwards, Sherlock finally asked, “How was your trip?” knowing John would appreciate being asked. After all, Sherlock did care. If he could deduce many answers on his own, that wasn’t really the point. With John, he was learning there were times when it was better for them both if he asked, rather than merely absorbing the details and giving pronouncements. 

Besides, this way he got to listen to John’s voice. Definitely a plus.

“Uneventful. Bloody boring, actually. I sometimes wonder why I go, but it is important to keep up with the latest research and techniques. It was informative, but the speakers were just… well, not public speakers as a rule. A bit slow and dry. How about your time? Do we have a case on?“

Sherlock sighed, but smiled. “Not as such.”

“Hmm?” John hummed his curiosity as he kissed down Sherlock’s neck.

“Bit of a conundrum occurred to me, though.” Sherlock said, ducking his head and commencing to kiss John again. 

“Oh?”

“Well, curiosity really. You’ve never been away so long since we started all this and...”

“Yes,” John prompted, amused at where this seemed to be headed.

“Just wondering if we can make up for the time away. If we usually have sex once a day at least, when we aren’t on a case, and you’ve been gone five days…”

John began to chuckle. “I doubt we can make five times today, no matter how much I missed you.” 

“Well, if you aren’t up for it...”

“You may have to wait for a bit before I am ‘up for it’,” John quipped, “but there is no reason we couldn’t try.”  
\---

By the second time, we took our time. The frenzied rush when I walked through the door was a delight, but this was better. 

Sherlock dressed only in his pants was always tempting enough, but on our way to the bedroom I noticed it. The sight of the little wet spot on them as my come seeped out of him was practically sinful. I strode ahead and grabbed him, pulling him through the doorway and onto the bed. I rolled him onto his back, pressing his thighs forward for access. Sliding down. I bit at the pert mounds of his arse before spreading them to lick at him through the thin material. Teasing my tongue _just_ into him. It was maddening, this bloody gorgeous man relaxed and already well taken, but not completely sated. Not yet. 

He writhed against my mouth, and groaned my name. 

And before I even removed those pants, ‘John,’ had become a blessing, a curse, a plea. I smiled against him, appreciatively. I wanted him to stay this way, thighs up, rolled without strain, so I could lick or fuck him for hours if I chose.  
“Yes, definitely missed you,” I whispered before returning to lapping at his hole, his skin so soft against my tongue after the rough cotton. He squirmed, though it seemed even he couldn’t decide whether he wanted away from the overwhelming, intimate sensation or whether he couldn’t get enough. Soon enough we settled into a rhythm as he squirmed away, then rocked back, fucking himself on my tongue.

His movements practically begged for more and I couldn’t deny him. First one, then two of my fingers found their way inside him. We were both greedy for more, but not yet ready to give in. This, exploring him, making him writhe beneath my tongue and hands, was worth the wait.

While we may not have made it to five, even Sherlock agreed a valiant effort had been made before we fell in an exhausted heap, oxytocin and serotonin working in tandem to make us blissfully sleepy.

It felt like no time at all when we were awakened. _So much for sleeping in,_ I thought as I struggled to open my eyes. Sherlock had answered the phone’s trill that had awakened me and was already bustling about. Mysterious robbery.  
No sign of breaking and entering. The safe was still locked, just empty. ‘Inspector Dim,’ as Sherlock often thought of him, needed us.

It didn’t even take the whole morning for Sherlock to ferret out what the yard couldn’t. Although even I got there faster than the officers with us. Perhaps he was rubbing off on me. The ‘victim’ had done the stealing himself. A brief look at his finances revealed a gambling problem. As it turned out, he had been replacing the gemstones in his wife’s jewelry with fakes. Recent expenses meant sacrifices that they were going to have to sell off a few pieces, but they were now worthless. The only way to recover their value was to collect the insurance money. Clever, really, if not for the locked room mystery that triggered Sherlock’s involvement. They found the fake pieces in the maid’s room, as the owner meant to frame her.

All in all, it was fairly easily wrapped up. By noon we had given statements at the Yard and were headed out when Dimmock pulled Sherlock aside.  
\--- 

Dimmock took Sherlock gently by the elbow, guiding him into his office, closing the door behind them. 

“I gave my statement already.” Sherlock said, jerking free of his grasp.”I don’t see what we could possibly need to do now and I have business to take care of at home. I don’t want to keep John waiting.”

“He isn’t a very patient man, is he.” Dimmock said. He offered Sherlock a sweet and gestured to a seat. 

“Well, he does put up with me,” Sherlock quipped with a slight smile, taking a mint and flopping into the chair, with a put-upon sigh. 

Dimmock’s face darkened with concern. “Sherlock, are things alright at home? Is there anything you need?”

“Things are fine. The lab is a little small since John reorganised the kitchen but he swears it is for our health and safety. I could use my own access to the NSA database, but I doubt your policy has changed on that.”

Dimmock looked at him blankly, clearly at sea for a moment. 

“No, Sherlock. You misunderstand. If you ever need to talk, I am here. Or you could just call one of these numbers and they’ll fix you right up.” He handed Sherlock a business card for the Domestic Abuse Hotline. ‘Do you feel safe at home?’ in bold letters. “Your wrists are black and blue and this isn’t the first time you have some odd injury or other...”

“Oh! You think…” Sherlock began before breaking into laughter. “No. John would never… it isn’t like that.” Regaining his composure, Sherlock looked at the misguided detective. “Remember the case we solved for you a few months back? Out of Bounds? The icicle stabbing? We were quite at home at that little club. Honestly, John and I discovered a few more things in common than we knew. Nothing going on that I don’t enjoy. Thoroughly.“

Dimmock coughed, shaking his head a bit at the wealth of information, looking cautiously relieved.

Sherlock began to sweep from the room, but stopped, remembering how John did prefer that he strive to be polite. He glanced over his shoulder and said, as sincerely as he could manage, “But thank you for your concern.”

He even made it a few steps from the door before breaking into peals of laughter again.  
\---

When Sherlock relayed the story to me on the cab ride home, I couldn’t help but grumble,  
“Easy for you to laugh, but you aren’t the one that could be charged with abuse.”

“Oh, you remember how everyone was that night. A few jokes and it was forgotten. The Met has no interest in what we do at home in our bedroom. Or kitchen. Or that one time on the fire escape. Ok, they actually would care about that one. It is technically in 'public' even at 3 AM, but still, John,” Sherlock kissed me, smoothing his hand over my hair, ”isn’t it just a bit funny.”

I smiled up at him, nearly laughing myself. "Well, maybe just a bit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks especially to Shellysbees, Madkatter13, type40consultingdetective, merindab (janto123) and beautifullyheeled for their loving help, beta reading, cajoling, commiserating, and encouragement. I love you all!


	7. Oral sex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it has taken a while, but at least not as long as the last chapter. This chapter has a tiny bit of plot but is mostly PWP. 
> 
> John has found a way to work with Sherlock's desire for breath play in a way that he feels comfortable.
> 
> If rough oral isn't your cup of tea, skip this one.

I knew this would be awkward. Uncomfortable. But I had to do it. Dimmock had avoided my gaze whenever we passed at the Yard. While I was certain it was, in part, his chagrin at having learned far more than he wished about our sex life, it seemed likely that he also felt bad for assumption. A bit of embarrassment comes to us all, but I couldn’t let this go on. What if it affected his ability to reach out like that in the future?

I knocked on the door to his office. “Detective Inspector? Do you have a minute?”  
He looked a bit like a trapped animal, but nodded.

“I just wanted to say… thank you.” 

His brow furrowed and his eyes narrowed slightly, shifting from wide-eyed fear to wary confusion. “For what?”

“I would rather a few mix ups than everyone turning a blind eye. My mum…” I trailed off, swallowing hard to try to dispel the feeling. My throat threatened to close, eyes stinging. I would not cry. Not here. But this had to be said. “Anyway thank you for trying to help. I wish,” I paused again, clearing my throat. “I wish someone had been willing to reach out when I was growing up. This turned out to be nothing, but there are plenty of people who need it.” I glanced at the floor again. “So… thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he managed to stammer. 

Having said what I came for, I strode from the room, leaving a stunned Dimmock to his paperwork.  
\---

“How’s Inspector Dim?” Sherlock asked when I arrived home.

Of course he knew. _When did he bloody well not?_

Shouldn’t I be used to my practically psychic boyfriend by now? Perhaps, but times like this it rankled a bit. _Couldn’t I deal with anything without him knowing?_

I sighed and set about making tea, but smiled as I took stock of the kitchen. 

Sherlock would likely never be truly service oriented, but the breakfast dishes were already done. Had been done fairly regularly lately, in fact. And for that matter, his experiments, though still as dangerous or putrid as ever, were labelled and properly stored.

Subtle changes. Accommodating needs. All part of our relationship taking a new shape.

It was fascinating, suddenly being the one to observe _his_ habits, subtly influencing them. 

I kept rethinking what he wanted. I had said outright in our row that there was no way to do breath play safely during. Those few weeks seemed ages ago. I kept musing, trying to work out something I _could_ do. Testing little ways around that. 

Smiling to myself, I decided to forgo the tea. My morning could be far more interesting. I came up behind him, resting my hand on his throat as I kissed the back of his neck. I had found that effective lately. No pressure, but he _had_ indicated that enough of it was psychological. And it clearly was, enough to make him catch his breath when I wasn’t really doing anything. 

It was heady to feel his pulse beneath my fingers. And watching him, his posture stiffening, his breathing heavier and quicker. Turing him in my arms, I kissed him. He pulled back, his pupils visibly dilating. Absolutely intoxicating. 

I leant back against the counter. “Strip, Sherlock.”

He made short work of his clothing, draping each piece neatly over a kitchen chair before stepping toward me.

I tangled my fingers in his hair, pulling him into a kiss before tugging him down, whispering, “On your knees.”

He looked up at me from the floor for just a second before his hands came up, as if to unfasten my trousers. 

“Not today,” I warned with a decisive shake of my head. “I want you to work for it. Use your mouth.”

He dropped his hands, resigned to the task and I smiled down at him as he began to comply. His usual gracefulness hampered by the task itself, but it was enough that he was eager. 

Sherlock flushed as he wrestled with my flies, his tongue working to push the button through its hole. His teeth gripped the tongue of the zip, his head dipping to draw it down. He mouthed over my thickening cock through the cotton of my pants. Even with the fabric between us, the heat of his mouth felt amazing. 

I was sure he could have managed to free me from the confines of the fabric using his mouth alone and I was tempted to let him, but I didn’t want to wait. I pulled him back before hooking my thumbs into the waistband of trousers and pants, tugging them down, my erection springing free. 

He started at me hungrily, licking his lips until they glistened, then leant forward to drag his tongue from base to tip. He moaned nearly as much I did, lapping at the corona. He took just the head into his mouth, sucking gently, then pulled back to probe the slit with his tongue, spreading my slick precome around. 

His own cock was already hard, heavy with desire and his hips rocked forward slightly or their own volition. As much as he claimed his body was mere transport, he certainly knew how to use it and relished giving over to pleasure. There was something intense and satisfying about watching him shift, from rigidly controlled to wanton and I loved it every time.

His lips wrapped beautifully around my prick as he began to swallow me down. I slipped my hand around to the back of his neck and let my thumb curl forward. 

_Oh, this would work beautifully._

I held him close when he seemed to want to pull back, pressing him in place just a few seconds longer than his natural rhythm. His fingers scrabbled along my thighs. It was divine. His eyes widened and he made the most delicious, nearly panicked, moans as I effectively choked him on my cock. 

I let him go and he paused just a moment, catching his breath before resuming his attentions. Every so often I did it again, that edge of danger, spiking his adrenaline, while I knew he was still safe. I could do this for him, and it felt brilliant. 

It seemed so simple, I was surprised it had taken me this long to see it. This removed all possibility of damage to the carotid sinus bodies or cutting off circulation at the carotid artery, which had been my primary concern. The last thing I needed was him going into cardiac arrest. _Or God forbid, doing damage to that brilliant mind._ But this? It was perfect. As safe as any of this could be.

He sucked harder, but setting the pace myself, this would take absolutely as long as I wished. When I felt myself getting close, I tangled my fingers in his hair, gripping tight, holding him back a bit. He was beautiful straining towards my prick. He cried out and his eyes flew open, staring up at me like a child denied a sweet. 

“Something you want, love?” I taunted.

His eyes narrowed, but he did managed words, rather than merely glowering at me. “To suck you,” he rumbled, his voice even deeper with lust, “To feel you come down my throat. I am loath to leave a task unfinished.” He closed his eyes a fraction longer than his usual blink and swallowed, adding a barely audible, “Sir.”

I couldn’t quite stifle a laugh at the petulant look and his turn of phrase. “‘Loath to leave a task unfinished?’ Yes, quite sure that’s it. You simply hate stopping in the midst of something. Not at all that you’re positively gagging for my prick, eh?” 

He had the decency to look panicked at that as though I might actually deny him. Someday I probably should. But not today.

He whimpered and I relented, easing my hold just enough that he could reach me again. “There you are,” I said, appreciating the warmth of his tongue, laving every inch of me. I pressed him down and he took the cue, lapping at the sensitive skin of my sac until the skin drew taut and I was panting. 

_Quite enough of that or this might end far too soon._

I guided him back to my cock. He knew what I liked and at first kept trying his usual skills, working his tongue against me as he sucked, still trying his best to please me. It was fantastic, but not what either of us needed this time. 

“God, Sherlock,” I breathed, thrusting up while keeping my grip on his hair. 

I steadily increased the pace, fucking his mouth. He relaxed his throat, and did his best to hold on, breathing shallowly between my thrusts. At last, he took me deep and I held him there, enjoying the way his throat tightened around me and his needy moans muffled by my prick.

Sherlock came hard, his body going rigid with the intensity, setting me off as well. The heady power of knowing I had pushed him over that edge without even touching his cock. Feeling his luscious mouth, his throat trying to close around the head of my cock, his body shuddering against me, I spilled down his throat with a low groan.

He curled into me afterwards, head pillowed against my thigh, contented. 

“John, you…” he tried to say, his eyes filled with genuine surprise and, more than that, affection. For once he seemed at a loss for words. 

“I found a way, love,” I said, stroking his hair. “Now, let’s get you up off the floor before your legs go to sleep.”

“Too late,” Sherlock said, with a smile.

I guided him to a chair and allowed myself to rest in one as well, at least until he was past the pins and needles and could stand. I leant forward to massage his legs, trying to work feeling back to them. 

“Think you can stand, love?”

He nodded slowly, still looking a bit dazed. 

“On second thought, drink this first,” I said, getting him a glass of water.

I dampened a tea towel and cleaned up the floor. Didn’t need Mrs. Hudson wandering in to that mess and Sherlock was in no shape to deal with it yet.

When he finished his water, I led him to the bedroom. I knew full well he hadn’t slept last night. Even if I couldn’t get him to sleep, it would still do him good.

I lay down beside him, stroking his back soothingly until his breathing settled into the deep, rhythmic pattern I knew. I watched him for a few moments, before letting my eyes slip closed as well, perfectly content.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to the writing circle for reading over this chapter


	8. Anal Sex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John maintains control, but does technically sexually bottom in this chapter. If you find that squicky, skip this one.

It had been awhile since we could do anything this elaborate. Between a nasty flu that kept the clinic full of patients and Sherlock getting case after case with little downtime between, well, at least we weren’t bored. 

Last night, Sherlock had wrapped up a complicated robbery turned murder where the criminal had actually not been much of an idiot when it came to covering his tracks. It had taken him longer than he thought was reasonable to solve it, but at least it was done. It would have taken the yard ages, if they ever got there at all, and he took some consolation in that. He had been up for two days and much as we might have wanted more, I tucked him into bed. Despite his protests, he was asleep in minutes. It was late afternoon when he woke and we had spent a nice quiet day around the flat. Even he seemed cheerful for the downtime, and he ate the fry up I set before him without complaint. Today, there was nothing on the horizon and it seemed the dust was settling from the whirlwind that had been the last two months.

So in the late afternoon, I led him to bed for a slow, sensual scene. I had been working for an hour now. Tying, kissing, luxuriating in touch and the feeling that we had all the time in the world. 

Ropes circled Sherlock’s thighs and down to the bed frame, keeping him exactly where I wanted. From there, they wound around his chest and arms in an intricate pattern, both decorative and binding, keeping his arms at his sides. I slid my hands over his skin, feather light, sensitizing every exposed bit as I went, now and again stopping to suck a dark mark on his neck, his shoulder, his chest, making them a part of my design as well. The ropes looped and crossed one another, the overall effect forming a heart over his chest. Sentiment, he might scoff, but let him. We both knew he loved it anyway, and it had been too long since we’d taken the time for all this. 

Speaking of too long... I suddenly knew exactly what I wanted. Needed, in fact.  
How would he feel about it in this headspace? 

Some people have more rigid ideas than others about topping, but we’d never had occasion to discuss it. Before we started playing with power and pain, there hadn’t been much need for discussion. We had just done what felt good.

So what would he think now? _Not exactly dominant?_

 _Well, we’ll see about that. It’s what I want and isn’t that the point?_

He might be surprised, but he had certainly hadn’t been averse before, I decided. And sometimes surprising him was quite satisfying. 

Climbing on top, I straddled his hips, rubbing my hard prick against his. I leant forward, grabbing the bottle of lube from the bedside table and drizzling it into my palm. I dragged my fingers through the slickness and worked it over his cock. He rocked up against me as much as the position and the ropes would allow and groaned in frustration when I released him so soon. 

Certainly it was sometimes fun to work him up for hours before release, but tonight I wouldn’t leave him wanting long.

Tilting my hips, I was able to rub against him. His eyes slid closed, savoring the sensations, the rub and glide of our pricks. I kept rutting against him, his moans of pleasure filling the room. 

He didn’t even seem to notice as I reached back to begin working myself open.  
We could come from this, had done in the past, but I had other plans. When I was ready, I braced myself above him and slid forward until the head of his cock brushed the rim of my arse. His eyes flew open as the angle shifted and I began to slide down, causing his cock to breach my arse. I stilled a moment and smiled down at him. “Fine?”

“Oh, J….John” he stammered, wide-eyed, before giving up on words entirely and nodding. 

God, being able to short circuit that amazing brain of his until he couldn’t even speak was glorious. 

I only slid fractionally lower before raising myself again. 

He tried to thrust and I chuckled darkly, pulling nearly off.

“No,” I whispered, “Just lay back and take whatever I give you.”

His brow furrowed for a moment, then relaxed as I rocked slowly down, taking him in. I drew a deep, slow breath in as I adjusted to the stretch. It had been too long and if all went well tonight, that was a mistake I didn’t think I’d be repeating. 

I kept things slow for as long as I could manage, rocking my hips and savoring his shaky intake of breath, his soft moans beneath me. I worked myself up and down his shaft, not giving in to the desire to speed up just yet, content to savor that full feeling. I wanted him to feel how I was still in control, every inch of him that filled me was a privilege. Mine to grant or to take away. 

I braced myself on the headboard, done teasing him. As delightful as it was to work him up, _I_ needed more. As I sped up, Sherlock called out my name. It was heaven.

“Now, come for me,” I said, reaching down with one hand to stroke and pinch his nipples until he gasped, caught in that perfect equilibrium between pain and pleasure. 

His breath stuttered and his eyes closed, biting at his lips as he filled me with the warmth of his release. 

“That’s it. So good for me,” I breathed as I knelt up, taking myself in hand. My body contracted around his oversensitive cock as I stroked myself off. It didn’t take much after all that before I came hard, streaking his chest and face with white. 

He slipped out, a small moan of frustration escaping his lips as if to was impossibly irritating that we couldn’t stay locked together forever. Adorable.

I stared down at him, surveying the beautiful wreckage. Not what I was aiming for, but he looked perfect. Debauched and glorious. 

He blinked up at me, his eyes glassy and not quite focused, a smile curving his lips, red and plump from where he had bitten back a scream of pleasure as he came. 

I wiped some of the come from his face and leaned down to press a kiss to his flushed cheek before I stood to get myself cleaned up and fetch a flannel.


	9. Explaining kink to Their Partner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Going a bit off in interpreting this chapter prompt, but John is explaining healthy kink to Sherlock, who has clearly had dysfunctional situations before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a kidnapping case at the beginning of this chapter. It is brief, but clearly traumatic and involves attempted molestation. Skip the first paragraph or this chapter entirely if that will be a problem for you! It needed to be something awful for Sherlock to actually be shaken up by it.
> 
> Thanks as always to shellysbees, my delightful beta!

The little girl was so fragile when they found her. She had been missing the better part of two weeks, kept in the lightless basement, with the other bodies. The ‘dollies who didn’t want to play anymore,’ her captor had called them. The bastard told her that she would become just like them. She was terrified and alone for roughly a week, except when her captor came to bring her food or taunt her. He liked them compliant and when he tried to move beyond dress up games, she had fought and screamed until he locked her away. At least he was still feeding her, though not nearly enough. Sherlock, in his brilliance, had finally found her, but he couldn’t stop berating himself that it had taken so long. 

It was awful, yes, but without Sherlock, she would have died down there. I had tried to tell him as much, tried to get him to focus on what was right. 

“I can’t,” I began, but thought better of of it and amended, "I won’t hurt you, Sherlock. Not today. It won’t help. It isn’t what you need.”

“Oh yes, _doctor_. please, tell me what I need,” Sherlock sneered, not even remotely trying to hide his contempt.

“You want to know what you need?” I barked, crowding Sherlock’s space until he backed into the chair by the hearth. “You need to be touched gently and often until you stop flinching from it. You need to be told you’re brilliant until you can believe, not that you are, because you clearly bloody know that, but until you can believe that someone else actually sees it, for once. You need to be fucked into the mattress, not to show you your place, not to teach you any goddamned lesson. Christ, if I ever get ahold of the bastards that taught you that is what this is about, I _will_ kill them. 

“John,” Sherlock tried to interrupt, but I wasn’t having it. 

“No. I’m not finished. You need to be fucked by someone who can hardly breathe, because their sheer desire to be that close to you is overwhelming. You want dominance, fine. You want pain, I can deliver. I’ve loved it. You know I get off on it. But I won’t. Not like this. Not while I can see it will do more to harm than to heal. I took an oath, Sherlock and that bloody well means something to me!”

He glowered and I shouted and I swear it wasn’t doing one bloody iota of good. 

“You don’t have to understand love, or to even know someone, to do proper aftercare or to notice that your partner doesn’t seem in a good headspace. I could ignore what I am reading in your eyes and beat you and use your gorgeous mouth. I could fuck you six ways from Sunday and send you to your room after you’d served your purpose, but that just isn’t on. That isn’t what I want from this and it isn’t what you really want either.”

\---

“I took an oath, Sherlock and that bloody well means something to me!” John had said. Of course it did. First do no harm. Sherlock wondered how that worked with his ability to shoot a man. Perhaps he rendered it as do no harm to those entrusted to your care. That certainly was within the spirit of the edict, if not the letter of it, and his ability to live in that sort of moral grey area leant itself to their work. Best not to upset that balance.

Sherlock needed to think. That was why he needed this! _Why couldn’t John understand?_

But if John wouldn’t, he would have to think of some other way. He had to get out of his head. 

John was still talking, but Sherlock had stopped listening, throwing on his coat and making his way to the door.

“Where are you going?” John shouted as he slipped past.

“Out,” was all Sherlock managed before slamming the door. 

\---  
I let him go. Goodness knew I had gone on enough walks to clear my head that I couldn’t fault him for it, but as the evening wore on and he still hadn’t come home, I worried more and more that he had done something stupid. 

When Sherlock walked in that night, the black eye and a few lacerations spoke volumes. 

I rushed to the door. “Sherlock, where the hell have you been? What happened?”

“You know my methods,” he said coolly as he tried to push past me, wincing when our shoulders brushed.

“You look like you’ve been used as a punching bag.”

“Excellent deduction, John. You really are improving.”

“Sarcasm doesn’t suit you, Sherlock.” I glared. I knew I would never match him, but I _had_ been working on his methods. I made an actual attempt, studying my beautiful, reckless love.

“Alright. Sit.” I gestured toward the couch and grabbed my med kit. “You want me to deduce it? I’ll tell you what you’ve been up to while I look you over.”

He sat still as I examined him. 

“You haven’t been to a bar. No scent of alcohol. I’ve seen you gather information often enough that way. If you had been, you would have consumed enough to fit in without dulling your wits. Maybe even sloshed it about if you needed someone to think you’re drunk. So, no bar...”

I examined the cuts on his cheek, lip and above one eye and started to treat them. He bore it well, but hissed through his teeth as I began to clean the wounds, the astringent smell of surgical spirit filling the room. These cuts could have come from any fist fight, but his hands gave it away. Lines across the back of his hands and wrists where wool lint from his jacket had stuck. Some kind of adhesive residue? There was no visible injury to the hand, so not a plaster. Besides which, if there had been any treatment, his face would have been tended. Certainly needed it more. 

“This wasn’t a criminal, either. You didn’t just pick a fight or happen into one. You were clearly prepared. Hands wrapped. I imagine there were gloves involved. That is generally how boxing goes. “

Sherlock actually smiled. “Well done, John,” and this time his tone was perfectly sincere.

“What were you thinking, Sherlock? You could have been killed.”

“Clearly I wasn’t.” Sherlock snapped. “Rather the point,” he added, reluctantly in an undertone.

I paused in my application of ointments and plasters, taking in his face. “Did it help?”

“No.” he said softly. “It didn’t.”

“I tol-

“If you say I told you so, I am walking right back out there,” he shouted, but his heart wasn’t in it.

That was alright then. I shook my head, drawing him close.

“No, you won’t, but it doesn’t need saying. I’m sorry you got hurt like this.”

He swallowed hard, leaning so his forehead touched mine. “I’m sorry, too.”

“You want to talk about it?”

He nodded, taking a deep breath, his words tumbling out in a hurried rush. “I got so wrapped up in it, in the intricacies of the trap. I should have seen it. We could have saved her the trauma.”

“Sherlock, you couldn’t have known. And she’s fine, alright? They have counselors. She’s back with her parents. They’re grateful. Case solved.”

“But not fast enough.“

“You always want to do more, be better. Isn’t it enough that no one else would have been able to work it out? He could have killed her, Sherlock. You saved her life.”

Sherlock collapsed against me, allowing me to hold him. How long we stayed together like that, I couldn’t say, but at last his breathing steadied. When he nearly drifted off to sleep in my arms, I led him to bed, confident that I had made the right choice.

There would be plenty of time to give Sherlock what he craved soon. For now, this was enough.


	10. Creative Sexual Positions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to shellysbees for betaing!

I couldn’t even say for sure what had started it. We had been out for a stroll on the first bright day we’d had in an age and something just shifted. I had been holding his hand and let my thumb slip softly over his wrist, caressing circles over his pulse point. He drew a sharp breath and when his eyes met mine, they were hungry. I leaned in and brushed my lips against his and when I drew back, I turned sharply back toward the flat, practically pulling him behind me for a change. 

It was far too tempting to drag him into an alley and just have him, and I told him as much, remembering his wild eyed panic at the suggestion I have him in the loo at the park. I wasn’t disappointed, rewarded with a stare reminiscent of nothing so much as a startled doe. Perfect. Still, I pulled him toward Baker Street. I wanted him completely naked, spread out before me. Otherwise, we never would have made it all the way home.

We had barely gotten in the door when I backed him against the foyer wall and drew him down for a deep kiss, before pressing him ahead of me. “Go strip and lay down on the bed for me,” I whispered.

I ascended the stairs after him, enjoying the view of his arse until he disappeared through the door to our flat, hurrying to comply with my directions. 

Entering the kitchen, I got down a bowl and filled it with ice before walking back to the bedroom. I set it on the bedside table turned my attention to Sherlock, laid out naked and already halfway to hard. 

I’m sure he expected me to get a tool or several out of the dresser. Rope, a cane or a flogger. Something. But today, I didn’t want anything else between us.

I walked to the side of the bed and caressed his skin. He trembled beautifully, but we had enough of softness lately. I knew what he was craving, and I was hungry enough for it myself. 

Without warning, I slapped each of his thighs sharply. He widened them, allowing me access to his tender inner thighs. I struck again, watching the color rise, subtle imprints of my hand. Again and again I brought my hand down, drinking in the each moan or soft cry, watching him grow harder with each blow. Somehow the stinging of my palm felt actually almost pleasant today. Grounding. We had missed this.

I stopped for a moment and Sherlock relaxed back against the pillows on the bed, and his eyes closed, lips curved in the slightest of smiles, parting as his breath came in ragged pants. 

“Turn over, love.” I ordered and he smiled more broadly, not even opening his eyes as he did so.

I rested my hand soundlessly for a few moments on the bowl of ice, calming the sting and smiled myself, aware that the chill would be anything but soothing for him.

He let out a satisfying yelp when I brought my hand down on his plush arse. Not quite expecting the cold, nor the sharper pain it caused. 

When his arse was glowing with heat and the backs of his thighs quite pink, I raked my nails across the sensitive flesh, making him moan before spanking again. At last, I moved away and slowly took off my belt. He turned his head to look up at me. It was obvious I was doing more than getting undressed. I could see in Sherlock’s eyes what he expected me to do with it. He tensed slightly, bracing for the hit, and though I knew he would welcome it, that wasn’t what I had in mind. I grabbed his legs instead, wrapping the belt low around his thighs and buckling it in place. 

He quirked his brow at me, the quizzical expression making me smile. 

“You’ll see,” was all I said, grabbing the bottle of lube from the bedside table. I popped the cap and drizzled it over seam where the backs of his thighs were pressed tightly together.

Sherlock gasped at the cold.

I massaged his thighs, spreading and warming the lube. 

“Who do you belong to?”

“You, John, always you,” Sherlock murmured. 

“That’s right,” I growled, bending low over him, my breath whispering against his ear before I nipped at the lobe. “To enjoy as I see fit, aren’t you?”

I stood back, watching the effect of my words. He shivered slightly and a blush crept over his cheeks as he breathed, “Yes, sir,” barely audible even in the quiet room.

Oh, he was going to enjoy this as much as I would, and that made it all the better. 

I finished stripping off my outer clothes, taking a moment to palm my hard cock through my pants, enjoying the anticipation, before I slipped them off and tossed them aside as well.

Sherlock made a slight noise of impatience, wiggling his hips, and I chuckled.

“Oh, is there something you wanted, Sherlock?”

“You, sir. However you want to have me.” 

 

Could he lose himself in it? Just turn off and be a toy, a tool for my pleasure? It seemed, at least, that he was eager to try. 

“Impatient little thing, aren’t you?”

“Patience has never been one of my best qualities.”

“Well, today, I won’t keep you waiting too long.”

I straddled his legs and slid my cock along the seam between his tightly bound thighs. Even that felt delicious, and I took my time savouring the slide of his slick skin against my prick, but when I dipped down, pressing myself between them, it was heaven.

He groaned as I thrust, nudging up against his taut bollocks, pressing him into the mattress. I knew it must be good for him too, even just the friction against the sheets. “Don’t hold back, love. When you’re ready to come, I want to feel it, you writhing beneath me.”

He moaned louder and pushed back as much as the position allowed. 

“You’re so good for me, Sherlock, I murmured against his shoulder, kissing as I rutted between his thighs. I gripped his hips then, increasing the force of my thrusts, working harder and faster as my pleasure built. “That’s it. My perfect toy,” 

He cried out beneath me at my words, shuddering, his thighs clenching even further and releasing as far as the belt allowed until I couldn’t hold back any further. Pleasure overtook me and I collapsed on top of him, pulsing hot between his bound legs, 

I just held him for a moment, as our ragged breathing calmed. I dotted his neck and shoulders with kisses and he sighed with contentment. When I felt steady enough, I climbed off and unbuckled the belt, tracing my fingers over the red lines made by our exertions. 

He shivered slightly beneath the touch. 

“Want to shower with me, or does my little slut want to lay about in our mess for a bit?”

He wrinkled his nose. “I feel sticky.”

“Up you get, then.” I helped him to his feet and then went to turn on the taps. 

He padded along after me and I could tell by his steps that he was still in that pleasant haze of submissiveness. When the water was warm enough, I helped him in and shifted him under the water first, lathering him up and down with his favorite French milled soap releasing a gentle aroma of lavender and vanilla. When I began to wash his hair, scrubbing my nails lightly over his scalp, his low sound of pleasure deep in his throat was practically a purr. 

“Sometimes you just need some time out of that beautiful brain of yours, don’t you?”

He hummed affirmation and I kissed him, letting him rinse off before commencing my own clean up. We luxuriated in the water until it began to chill. When we stepped out, he wrapped himself up and toweled me off, more service oriented than usual. Rather sweet, actually.

“Thai?” I asked when he emerged from the bedroom.

“Mmmm,” was all he could manage, still primarily nonverbal.

“I think we can splurge for delivery today. I’d rather not leave you just yet.”

He curled around me on the couch as I ordered and nearly fell asleep as I stroked his curls and glanced through a book as we waited for dinner. For the moment he was blessedly in such a state as to neither criticize my taste in literature or give away the ending, I smiled to myself. 

All in all, a rather perfect day.


	11. Double Penetration

“John?”

 

“Hmmm?” I shook myself, looking back at Sherlock.

 

“It seemed I lost you for a moment there,” Sherlock huffed. 

 

He had been going on about the latest experiment, I was fairly certain. At least he had been when my eyes had roamed up again to that attachment point and I was lost in my own world. Much as he might appreciate that fact at a later date, it wasn’t very polite at the moment. 

 

For all I knew he could have been talking about taking tea with the Queen, on the moon.

 

He had put some kind of eyebolt in the ceiling months ago for a case that involved hanging. Initially it had been presumed suicide, but it turned out to be staged by the murderer. He would have gotten away with it if it hadn’t been for Sherlock. I’d been eyeing that little loop of metal ever since. I knew it was strong enough to hold someone more than twice Sherlock’s weight, as that had been the point. 

 

Scenarios kept playing out in my head. Sherlock, bound and suspended from that point, gagged, his eyes wide as I turned him this way and that, weightless. Or ropes wrapping his arms tight to his chest, looping over his shoulders before they attached to the bindings around his ankles, securing him forward while the rest of the rigging secured him to the ceiling. His feet would still touch the ground, but precariously, teetering. Adjusting him to the perfect height to make use of his mouth…

 

So, yes, he had lost me, for a minute or two. 

 

“Sorry, what was that again. I _had_ gotten distracted.”

 

\----

 

A few days later, I was able to indulge more than fantasy. It was clear that he needed this. To be perfectly honest, we both did, but patience was never his best feature and as I twisted and coiled and knotted the deep red rope around his chest and over his shoulders, Sherlock simply couldn’t stay still.

 

“Stop fidgeting,” I warned, with a sharp slap to his arse.

 

Sherlock let out a loud cry, far in excess of his usual reaction to that level of pain. He wasn’t sick and the room wasn’t chilled.. No reason for him to be oversensitive unless he was out of sorts, having trouble finding his way into the space that allowed him to shut off and appreciate these attentions. 

 

I shook my head as I drew Sherlock’s arms up behind his back, binding them together, but he moved again, pulling out the knot I had attempted to tie. 

 

“If you are going to squirm like that, I might as well have some fun with it,” I muttered. I held him more firmly in place and finished off the knot once more before bending Sherlock forward at the waist. I mounted the step stool beside him, allowing me to reach the eyebolt in the ceiling, then threaded the ropes through and pulled them taut until Sherlock’s feet just barely touched the floor. I tied off the ropes, checking that they were quite secure before stepping down and moving the stool out of the way. 

 

“Now then, let’s see…” I paused, tracing my fingers idly over the handles of my safety shears, making sure they were in easy reach, then took up a bottle of lubricant from the table. 

 

Of course, Sherlock couldn’t see the table or its contents from that angle, but I knew he would easily recognise the pop of the plastic lid before even feeling my slick fingers parting the cheeks of his arse. He shivered slightly at the cool touch and moaned as I began to work him open. He tried to arch back against my touch, but could barely keep his balance as it was, so was forced to let me set the pace, moaning as he longed for more.

 

“That’s what you need, isn’t it? To be filled. Don’t worry. I’ve just the thing. You’re not ready for me yet. Not after all that squirming and carrying on.” 

 

I pulled out and wiped my fingers on a towel before taking a new object from the table. Though Sherlock couldn’t see this either, I was sure he had a fairly good guess. His smile as I slid it in place, the way his eyes slipped shut, I could tell he was savoring the sensations, gauging by the smoothness and the stretch that it had to be our black silicone plug, nearly as thick as I am at its widest, though slightly shorter. It had become one of his favorites. He stilled as I pressed it forward steadily until it was buried as deep as it would go, only the flared base protruding from Sherlock’s arse, looking delightfully obscene.

 

“That’s better, isn’t it?” I bent forward to whisper roughly. “You just needed to be filled up.”

 

Sherlock nodded slowly, his eyes going wide and dreamy as he settled finally into subspace, rocking only slightly back against my hand that still held the plug in place. His cock was full and heavy, leaking already. 

 

I thrust the toy in and out a couple times, enjoying Sherlock’s moans as a drop of precome fell to the floor. He was already so close. It would be so easy to get him off like this, but that wasn’t what I needed. Reluctantly, I let the toy go and picked up another coil of rope. 

 

Sherlock whimpered slightly as I went back to the rope work, leaving his cock untouched. He didn’t argue or squirm or beg, though, finally ready to submit to whatever I had planned. 

 

“Good boy,” I said, running my hand gently down his side before setting to work again. I bound around Sherlock’s hips, tying the ropes into the previous knotwork, then slid the ropes down between his legs and up to complete the harness in the front. When the last knot was in place, I checked the tension, making sure there was just enough slack. 

 

I walked around to the front, gripping Sherlock’s chin in his hand so I could look into his eyes as I grasped the ropes that led to the ceiling. I pulled, drawing the ropes forward and he gasped. Clearly I had gauged right, the plug sliding deeper as I controlled the ropes. 

 

“Suck,” I commanded and Sherlock opened his mouth for me, plush lips wrapping around my shaft. I used the ropes to set the pace, slowly at first, building until I was fucking Sherlock’s throat, knowing how full, how deliciously used, he would feel. 

 

Sherlock did his best to swallow, but the pace and the angle were too much. He flushed pink.

 

“God, you’re a sight like this,” I growled and Sherlock moaned louder, letting me know I had guessed the source of his blush correctly. “Such a beautiful mess for me, aren’t you?

 

He groaned in affirmation, and the vibrations felt amazing. I adjusted my grip so the ropes were in one hand and with the other, I ran my fingers over his lips and chin, dragging the mix of spit and precome down over his throat before wrapping my hand gently around his neck. I couldn’t wait any longer. Thrusting hard and deep, I held him in place as I came.

 

He shook, his own pleasure overtaking him as he swallowed around me. 

 

Coming back to myself, I released him and the ropes, carding my fingers through his hair, damp with the sweat of our exertions. Smoothing it back from his forehead, I bent down and kissed him deeply, tasting myself on his lips. Filthy, gorgeous. I pulled back at last, letting my dazed lover catch his breath at last.

 

“There’s my beautiful boy.” I smiled at him, taking in . “Are you ready to come down now?”

 

Sherlock closed his eyes and shook his head, before managing,”Not yet.” He paused a moment, then his eyes flew open, alarmed, as he added a belated, “Sir.” 

 

I chuckled, “Good catch, love. You’re fine.” I caressed his cheek and moved to run my fingers lightly over his arms. Still pleasantly warm. Grasping his fingers, I depressed the nail beds on a few fingers and smiling to myself when color returned quickly. No trouble with circulation. “ You can stay strung up there a bit longer, if you’d like.”

 

“Thank you, sir.”

 

“Hmm...If you are enjoying it that much, I could see about adjusting the rigging to full suspension. Would you like that?”

 

Sherlock’s eyes lit up with delight and he gave a slight nod.

 

I grabbed another length of rope and began winding it through the previous work, adjusting spacing and checking knots as I went. Soon his ankles were bound together, ropes running up to the eyebolt, his knees bent enough to lift his feet completely off the floor. 

 

Sherlock’s eyes widened at the initial lift, the weightless sensation. He took a deep breath, a slight smile tilting the corners of his mouth as his eyes slid shut. He looked utterly peaceful, the last remains of today’s restless energy slipping away. 

 

I nudged him slightly, setting him swinging to and fro. I was prepared to catch him and still the motion if he seemed distressed, but his smile widened. 

 

I couldn’t quite say how long he stayed, swaying gently in his bonds, but at last, his eyes opened and he met my gaze. 

 

“Thank you, sir,” he said softly. 

 

I stroked his cheek. “Let’s get you down now. Wouldn’t do to keep you there all night,” I laughed as I began unfastening the ropes, tossing them into a pile on the chair.

 

At last, I lowered him to the floor, rubbing the stiffness from his arms. “I’ll be right back,” I said, before heading into the kitchen and pouring a glass of water. 

 

He took the water gratefully and drank about half at one go as I stroked his hair.

 

“There now. Feeling much better?”

 

He nodded, too far under for words yet.

 

“I’m going to go start the water so we can get cleaned up. If you feel up to following on your own, you’re welcome to. If you don’t come in by the time the water’s warm, I’ll come get you.” 

 

Humming to myself, I started the water and got out fresh towels, throwing the old ones in the hamper as I went. When the water was steaming and he hadn’t appeared yet I went back out. 

 

There he was, curled on his side on the floor, honestly dozing, heedless of the come drying on his stomach. Loath as I was to wake Sherlock, ever, sleeping on the floor would do him no good.. “Love,” I whispered, stroking his back. “Shower’s ready.”

 

He hummed sleepily and stretched like a cat, before allowing me to pull him to his feet. 

 

When we were clean, I took him to bed, settling in beside him. 

 

“That was amazing,” his whispered, drawing me close.

 

“You are amazing,” I said, kissing him lightly. 

 

His eyes slid closed one more, falling more easily into sleep than I had ever seen.

I smiled to myself, contented to watch the steady rise and fall of his chest. He always rested better after our time together, and truth be told, so did I, eventually. I felt calmer, and even if it would be awhile before I would be ready to settle down for the night, I was happy to lay here, watching my love sleep and contemplating our scene. There had been something particularly lovely about having him suspended there, utterly mine to control, the dark ropes biting into his pale skin. One of his arms was thrown over the edge of the bedspread and I softly traced the indentations the ropes had left behind, my thoughts already turning to what I might do next time.


	12. Corsets

The body had been found on the floor of his executive suite when the cleaning lady arrived. Despite the designer three piece suits and polished shoes in the closet, the Rolex and the keys to a luxury vehicle I’d never even heard of on the dresser, nothing had been stolen as far as the officers on scene could tell. There was even a fair amount of cash in his wallet, though he didn’t spend cash on the hotel or its restaurants. According to the manager, he kept a running tab, which he paid monthly. 

“He was always on time, booked this particular hotel room at least once a month occasionally twice. It was often used, not by Mr. Cavanaugh, but by a statuesque redhead, Emily. No last name was given. Perhaps his sister, I had always thought. Certainly there was a resemblance. Now I see why.” 

Men in power often had their secrets and their mistresses. It was no one’s concern, really, as long as no one got hurt, and when you are paying for rooms like these you get their discretion. 

Emily had been found wearing an emerald corset, matching lace panties, and suspenders. The stockings were actual silk. She was gorgeous, even eerily pale. When the body was first reported, it was that a woman had been found dead, but as the inspectors were beginning their preliminary investigation it became clear that things were at the least a bit more complicated. She wasn’t Michael Cavanaugh’s sister; he didn’t even have one. Their victim was none other than Michael himself, albeit done up very convincingly. 

“Never seen anything like this, eh?” one of the new forensic analysts remarked.

“Been on quite a few crime scenes, actually.”

“Oh, sorry, sir. I know that, you working with Sherlock Holmes and all. Meant the outfit. Bit much, isn’t it?”

“Had a few exes that liked to get decked out for a bit of fun. Nothing quite as elaborate as all this, though,” I answered mildly. Nothing that looked like it cost a year’s wages, I didn’t add. 

Sherlock declared rather immediately that they hadn’t been posed. “A victim might be posed crossdressed postmortem to humiliate or as part of a specific fantasy, but this is different. Michael was a man of discerning taste, as his masculine wardrobe indicated.” He gestured towards the closet behind us before continuing, “These clothes differed only in gender. The style, the fit, both were in exquisite quality, clearly chosen by the same person. Judging by the stitching of the tailoring, they were sewn by the same hand. Certainly bespoke. You don’t get fit like this off the rack.”

“Seems quite a risk, given his business. You’d think he would just order some dresses and such and be done. Not let anyone else see more than they had to,” one of the officers remarked. 

“Clearly you don’t know many good tailors,” Sherlock smirked. “Keep better confidences than a barkeep or a hairdresser and people do nothing but gossip with those.” He bent down, examining the wedding band and fingernails. “John, what do you see?”

“Clean. Well cared for. Looks as meticulous like this as he does in those suits I’d wager.” I bent down examining the body. “No signs of a struggle. No reason to suspect sexual contact was anything but planned for and wanted. Face and chest are flushed, slight blue tint around the nose and mouth. I’d wager heart attack.”

“Bit young for that, isn’t he?” the inspector asked. Gregson, I think his name was. 

“A bit, yeah, though it can happen,” I offered. “Besides not all cardiac events are natural. Plenty of things can induce it. We need to determine whether this one was natural or something else entirely. I’d have them run a tox screen and see what turns up.”

“We should talk to Mrs. Cavanaugh in any case, just to be thorough.” 

“Let us take care of that, would you, Inspector?”

We arrived at their sumptuous estate a few hours later. She was expecting us and greeted us as warmly as possible under the circumstances. The servants bustled about, bringing in tea as she led us to the sitting room. 

She was well put together, but even I could tell she’d been crying. Not in a showy way, either. She’d tried to cover with makeup before we arrived. She wasn’t used to appearing in any state of disarray.

“We are so sorry for your loss,” I soothed. “I know it is a difficult time, but we have to ask you a few questions.”

“Of course,” she said. There was a flash of something in her eyes, but I couldn’t quite place it. 

“Were you aware of your husband’s activities in the city?”

She closed her eyes for a moment and the corner of her mouth twisted up in a smile. “You mean Emily’s?”

“Yes, of course. Emily’s”

“I knew everything there was to know about my husband, Michael and Emily alike. If you check the hotel records, I’m the one that booked them. I’d call the first of the month to confirm the date and add any extras. Sometimes book a massage or something as a treat. If I couldn’t give Emily what she needed, I made damn sure that someone did.”

“So you set up his dates as well?” I ventured.

Again she smiled. “I did. Same person, always. I’ll have my girl send you the details.”

Sherlock asked, “Did your husband have any enemies? Anyone who would want to harm him? Or perhaps anyone who knew of Emily and didn’t approve?”

“Not any real enemies. I mean, He’s a CEO. Of course there are people who wish they’d been promoted or people who envy his paycheque, if not his workload, but ‘enemies’ seems like a strong word.”

Her eyes misted over. “I’m sorry,” she choked out. “I just can’t believe he’s gone.”

“I understand. Of course you’re upset. I think that’s all for now?” I asked, cocking a brow at Sherlock, who nodded. “If you think of anything, anything at all, please let us know,” I said, handing her one of Sherlock’s cards.

She thanked us for our time and allowed her housekeeper to see us out.

As we walked away I asked Sherlock, “Did you get anything?”

“She didn’t have anything to do with it and doesn’t know who did. Genuinely surprised and upset. Her ring is in the same state as his. They were happy.” He practically spat the word, out of irritation for the lack of leads no doubt. “His affair was entirely with her blessing. Useless.”

“Well, great for them until the whole murder thing, but yes, useless to us. Unless… what if his mistress or whoever wanted more?”

“And killed him when he wouldn’t leave his wife? Doubtful, considering it would have to have been known from the beginning.”

“Feelings can change over time, though. Maybe they thought they were fine with this at first and then....”

Sherlock looked alarmed and quickened his pace. He hailed a cab. “This one’s mine, I have to think,” and with no more than that he hopped in, leaving me to fend for myself.

I texted Greg to see if the video surveillance had panned out and told he Sherlock had ruled the wife not a suspect. Turned out there were two figures aside from Emily/Michael seen entering and leaving the hotel, both rather near time of death.

Hopefully that would give us something to follow up on.

 

As it turned out, we didn’t need to. I had just arrived home to find Sherlock was perched on the couch, hands steepled in what I had come to think of as classic mindpalacedonotdisturbme mode when his mobile rang. 

Mrs. Cavanaugh was on her way and in just a few moments, she arrived. Mrs. Hudson led her up and backed out leaving us with our guest.

While Mrs. Cavanaugh gathered her thoughts and tried to keep a grip on her emotions, I went to fetch her a cup of tea. It was a touch embarrassing offering her a drink in one of my old chipped mugs, but the only nice china we had was being used to store one of Sherlock’s experiments at the moment.

She accepted the cup gratefully and took a steadying sip before beginning, “There had been one attempt at blackmail. Some little weasel at work thought I’d actually care. He had taken some grainy pics of Emily from afar and was trying to threaten us with them. Michael laughed in his face. He couldn’t rock our marriage with them and it wasn’t as if some blurry photo would even be identifiable as him if he tried to show them around anywhere else.

“I didn’t mention it this afternoon, because I thought it was over. That was months ago. But today I received this message.” She was shaking as she held out her phone. “He’s asking 10,000 pounds or he’ll make these Michael’s profile pictures on every site he uses.”

“That doesn’t even sound like he knows Michael’s dead,” I blurted out.

“No, it doesn’t. I think it may have been an accident, but we’ll have to meet the man to be sure.” Sherlock turned to Mrs. Cavanaugh and said, “Set it up and text me the details. I’ll have the Met meet us there.”

When all was said and done, they arrested Sean for blackmail, illegal possession and administration of pharmaceuticals, in addition to unlawful act manslaughter. He had intended to drug Michael long enough to take some compromising pictures, which he did. Unfortunately, he had no idea that his victim took blood thinners or that the chloral hydrate he had slipped into the drink at the bar where Emily met her date would cause a cardiac event when it took effect. Nor did the git even notice in his greedy blackmailing that his victim had stopped breathing.

The case had wrapped up to a satisfying conclusion. By the time I finished writing it up, I thought that was that. In fact, I hadn’t given it much of a thought since. So imagine my surprise when I returned home after a long day at the surgery to discover Sherlock kneeling beside my chair clad in violet knickers, camisole, paired with a deeper shade for the corset, and suspenders.

“What’s all this, then?” I asked. He had never indicated anything like this, though I did flash to the look on his face when I had first asked about role playing. I always thought there was something he just hadn’t gotten around to admitting. Perhaps, this? Still, it was… unexpected.

“Do you like it, Sir?” he purred, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of doubt. “I thought you missed this.”

“Did you drug me for some crossdressing scene I don’t recall? One can’t miss things they’ve never had, Sherlock.”

“I would never,” spluttered, eyes flashing hurt, “All right, I _would_ , but not like this and certainly not for-”

“Alright, love.” I stroked a hand through his curls. “Of course you wouldn’t. I wasn’t serious. Just startled. You meant what, then? Women? Lingerie?”

Sherlock ducked his head. “At the crime scene you mentioned old girlfriends. They used to dress for you sometimes. You sounded like you enjoyed it and then, things change you said. You think you can do things that you can’t over time and I just…” Sherlock flapped his hands wildly at his attire in an uncharacteristically vague gesture, clearly at a loss for further explanation and I am not proud to say I let out a bark of laughter, more at seeing him flustered like this than anything.

He hung his head further and muttered, “I’ll just go change, then,” he said, starting to slink off.

“Hey, now,” I soothed, grabbing his hand and halting his retreat. My tongue darted out, wetting my lips. The gesture started unconsciously, but I became aware of it and lingered obscenely before I whispered, “Let’s not be too hasty.” I let my voice drop to a low growl as I continued, “Let me look at you.”

Sherlock’s cheeks stained crimson, even beneath the powder he had applied.

“This is you,” I said, “and I love you.”

“John, I didn’t do this for me. It isn’t my-”

“I thought as much. That’s,” I kissed him before continuing, punctuating each word with kisses, “not. what. I. meant.”

Sherlock looked at me through lowered lashes, eyes narrowing in annoyance as he still didn’t understand. 

“You did all this for me. To make me happy. And that makes me happy. Besides,” I added with a smile, “You really are quite fetching.”

I stroked my hand down his cheek and he smiled back at me, relaxing visibly.

“I’m sorry my reaction wasn’t initially what you hoped, my brilliant boy, but I would very much like to take you to bed.”

“Mmm,” his voice rumbled, breath hot against my throat. “I’d like that.”

My hands slid over his slim waist, the stays of his corset stiff beneath my fingers. The satin was silky to the touch and clearly finely made. I reached around and looped the cord from the lacings around my hands, pulling him close. I slid my other hand down to the silky knickers, cupping his hardness beneath the thin fabric and was rewarded by a delicious moan. 

“That’s it.” I gave him a few firm strokes with the soft fabric, before stopping and freeing myself from my own trousers. It felt a bit clumsy one-handed, but I didn’t want to let go of the tethers that the corset so beautifully provided.

I pressed him ahead of me down the hall and sent him sprawling on the bed, finally releasing him for a moment to divest myself of the rest of my clothes. I flipped him onto his back and crawled up his body, kissing and nipping as I went until we were pressed together, his cock slotted perfectly against mine through the cool silk. I rutted against him, teasingly at first, holding his hips down so he couldn’t seek more friction, but it felt too good for me to hold off too long. I increased the pressure as I bent down to kiss his jaw, down his neck and over his silk clad nipples, sucking one through the thin fabric and blowing lightly. 

He whimpered and shivered beneath me. “More, please, Sir.”

“Are you prepared for more?” I asked.

Breathless, he answered me, “Before you arrived, Sir. Yes.” Rolling his hips he murmured, “Take me.”

The image of him bathing and opening himself for me, all before donning this frippery to be ready for my return was delightful. My cock throbbed against his and I could feel the fabric growing damp with our mingled precome.

I unfastened the suspenders and slid them down his thighs along with his pants before flipping him over again. I wrapped the corset ties in my hand once more, pulling him up to hands and knees. 

“God, yes, please Sir,” he moaned as I lined up and pulled him back onto my cock. He let out a shuddering breath as I filled him.

“That’s it, gorgeous.” I murmured, tugging on the corset strings like reins, guiding him just where I needed him, savoring the way he moaned beneath me. 

He was laced tightly to begin with and I watched it cinch further as I tugged. Sherlock cried out and bucked against me. I felt his body tighten around me as he tensed and spilled onto the sheets below.

I continued thrusting hard as he came, riding him through it until my own pleasure overcame me. For a moment everything went white.

His fingers tapping a staccato rhythm against the mattress brought me back to my senses, our usual signal if he couldn’t use his words, and I realized I had pulled too tight in my enthusiasm. I released the cords and loosened them until he could breathe more easily again. We unbuckled the corset and I dropped it off the side of the bed, gathering him close and slid the camisole up, checking for bruising. Right along his ribs the red lines were marked deeply from the corset stays and would likely bruise, but no more than any of our play. 

I kissed along the red marks as I murmured, “Alright, love?”

He hummed assent as he curled into my arms. “For a miscalculation, that didn’t turn out so badly.”

I grinned at him. “No, not badly at all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Tiger-in-the-flightdeck for beta-ing this one! I love you and your help is always appreciated.


	13. Public Sex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That one time on the fire escape at three AM.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was unwittingly inspired by Tiger (who likes watching Martin Freeman smoke). Their offhand comment percolated for a few days with a line from way back in chapter 6, and morphed into this. 
> 
> If you can't fathom John smoking at any time for any reason, then skip this chapter. (or for that matter, skip it if sexualized smoking will set back your progress in quitting) 
> 
> Thanks to Mer (janto321) and Tiger (Tiger_in_the_flightdeck) for beta reading this chapter and love always to Shelly, who usually betas this piece. She's been busy lately, but I still adore her.

In recounting how Sherlock and I came to enjoy the particular relationship we now share, I once mentioned in passing that there had been a tryst on the fire escape at 3 AM. Well, Sherlock did, but I’m the one writing it up, so I suppose I did as well. At any rate, this is that story.

He was in a strop, bored and tetchy, ready to say things he didn’t mean. I could tell. He was dancing on that edge and had been most of the day. In fact I think it was only our newfound dynamic that was preventing a complete meltdown. To be honest, I was in as foul a mood as he. We hadn’t had a case in two weeks and the only prospects Himself had deemed ‘a three at best’. I convinced him to send emails with the solutions to four of them by framing the requests as orders and tangling my fingers in the curls at the nape of his neck and tugging lightly as I spoke. Then he had launched into a series of complaints about the rest until the mood was entirely soured and I began to wonder if he’d notice if I slipped in ear buds. Of course he would have, but I was tempted to try nonetheless. 

So when he ducked out onto the fire escape, I didn’t stop him. Though I cared for his health dearly, a cigarette or two (or five) was really better at this point than waking the neighbors with atonal sawing away at the violin, sounding more like feral cats in heat than what anyone would call music.

I had only recently finished apologizing to the neighbors for the recent small explosion of an experiment. Well, I had said we were sorry. Then, in exchange for Mrs. Hudson sending tins of biscuits round to soothe ruffled feathers, I’d listened to her prattle on about her latest trip to her sister’s and Sherlock and I had both been subjected to a private fashion show trying to help her decide on a look that said subtly interested (not desperate) for the next time she met Mr. Chatterjee for coffee.

Of course that was before Sherlock deduced the wife in Doncaster. 

Not that any of that is relevant to the story at hand, except to say that he snuck out for a smoke and I let him go without complaint and that I am nothing if not giving.

I sat alone in the flat, listening to the city through his open window, resigned to the fact that sleep wasn’t coming for me anytime soon. I’d had a lie in this morning and an unintentional afternoon kip on the sofa, so I didn’t need it really.

I inhaled the soft petrichor of the dew dampened pavement mingled with his nicotine fix and it was oddly soothing. I felt the tension of the day melt away, replaced by a nearly melancholy tenderness. I thought perhaps I was a bit too old for clambering through windows when there wasn’t an actual emergency, but for all of our cooped up snarkiness today, I found I didn’t want to be away from him. Before I crossed to the window, I tucked the bottle of lube from the emergency supply in the desk into my pocket in case this went as I hoped.

“John?” Sherlock said, startled when I opened the window a bit wider.

“Budge over.”

He shifted over a bit and I climbed out next to him.

“You hate it when I smoke.”

I hummed assent as I plucked the fag from his fingers, then took a long drag and blew out the smoke in rings. “Maybe I should start. Don’t want to live without you again, so if you insist on shortening your life with these things, I should take it up.”

He goggled at me as though I had grown wings or a second head before his eyes. His eyes widened further as I took a second drag, then pulled him close and pressed my mouth against his, opening my lips and exhaling.

We parted and he looked at me with wonder as he blew out a grey cloud that floated off to mingle with the fog. “You’re a doctor. You’ve begged me to quit, hidden my stash, growled and cajoled and punished. How...why...what are you...when did you…”

I chuckled. “One whole sentence, if you please.”

His eyes narrowed and he opened his mouth, but no words came out. Instead he brought my fingers to his mouth, took a drag and mimicked my actions.

I smiled, appreciating the heat of the kiss, the burn of the smoke, and the familiar intimacy of the act, but even more than that, the way it had seemed to startle Sherlock. It was always fun to throw him off balance, a feat not easily managed when your boyfriend and flatmate was one Sherlock ‘I-know-everything-before-you-do’ Holmes.

I grinned cheekily at him. “If you aren’t going to finish your questions I’ll just have to take my best stab at what you meant. How did I learn to do that? First real girlfriend was a smoker. Didn’t care for the taste much, but when I smoked too it was less shocking. Then, sense memory and such, eventually I didn’t mind. Sharing smoke seemed a logical extension. We broke up after a couple months. Never really addicted, just social. In the army I sometimes smoked with mates. Learned to blow smoke rings one night on patrol. You’re not the only one who gets bored, and they made exciting target practice for darts.”

“Why didn’t this come up before?” He asked, almost accusingly.

“I didn’t want to encourage you. But since you seem determined,” I took another drag and passed it to him, “To do it anyway, I might as well enjoy it.”

We finished the cigarette and I ground it out on the railing, dropping it down to the skips below and kissed him again, pressing myself between his thighs.

He met my gaze and bit his lip, before uttering, sinfully low,“Take what you need, John.” 

I kissed him again, deeply, burying my fingers in his hair and tipping him back. I slid my hands into his waistband, shoving his pajamas and pants down far enough to draw his cock out. We broke apart and he hissed in a sharp breath as his arse hit the cold wrought iron, letting it out again as a low moan as I wrapped my hand around his length. 

Drawing my hand slowly down to the base, I gave him a squeeze and he kissed me, groaning into my mouth and arching up against me. 

I wanted to see him fall apart, but the insistent pulse and throb of my own prick and the weight of the bottle in my pocket made me pause. “Touch yourself for me. Right here. I want to see you.”

He bit his lower lip as his hand replaced mine, stroking his hard shaft. 

He braced himself with one hand against the railing, as I slid his bottoms and pants down to his ankles. He stepped out of them and I tossed them back inside, leaving him in nothing but his vest, pebbled nipples poking through the thin fabric. I mouthed over them for a moment before pulling back to watch him work himself over.

I drew out the slick and coated my fingers as his thumb circled over the head, spreading around the beads of precome that leaked from his slit. 

His movements were slow and calculated and his eyes were hungry when his gaze met mine. He leant back further, spreading his legs to give me access.

I hitched one of his legs up over my hip as I slipped my fingers back to circle his entrance. 

Sherlock gasped my name as I slid a finger inside, adding a second after only a few thrusts. I prepared him as quickly as I dared, not wanting to truly hurt him, but he never minded the slight burn. If anything, Sherlock enjoyed it more that way.

When he was ready, I took myself out, not even bothering to undress, and slicked myself generously. I pulled his legs up around my waist, lining up with his entrance and pushed steadily in until I was fully seated. He gasped and panted in my arms as I drew out again, barely giving him time to adjust before I began to move in earnest. He held on to my shoulders with one hand and gripped the railing tightly with the other to steady us, touching himself all but forgotten in the heady mixture of pain, pleasure, and submission.

“God, John, yes. Use me,” he whispered into my ear, his breath coming in soft, ragged pants.

I could ask for no better invitation than that, his words sending a surge of desire through me, fueling my basest urges to take, to own, to use him at my will. I held onto his hips, drawing him forward and pulling him back, controlling every motion. I angled slightly and the way he threw his head back, digging his fingers into my shoulder let me know I had him just where I wanted him. Lifting him once more, I drew him down hard and fast in a series of thrusts that left him breathless and had me nearly seeing stars. 

I wasn’t sure how long I could sustain this position, but apparently long enough. In a few more thrusts, Sherlock curled into me, biting down on my shoulder to muffle his cry as he spilled between us. 

I drew him down once more and filled him him completely, grasping his hips hard enough to bruise, I rode out the rhythmic contractions of his body tight around me in orgasm as my own crashed through me.

After a moment, he shivered in my arms, bringing me back to myself. 

“Christ, it’s cold out here,” I chuckled, lifting him down. He looked up at me, swaying slightly, eyes dreamy and unfocused. I patted his arse and scooted him over to the windowsill. “Get inside. We should warm you up.”

I followed, smiling at how he grabbed his pants from the floor to wipe us both off with and actually tossed them into the hamper. “Good boy.”

He beamed sleepily at the praise and grabbed the comforter from the bed. “Fire?” he managed and headed for the front room. 

I finished cleaning myself up and found him bundled on the sofa. I built a fire before curling together with him, pressing kisses along his jaw as we lay drowsing in the growing warmth.


End file.
